


Rhapsody In Blue

by Emberxashton



Series: Roaring Hot [13]
Category: Marvel Cinematic Universe
Genre: Alternate Universe - 1920s, Alternate Universe - Mob, Alternate Universe - Noir, Dark Tony, Mental Instability, Mob Boss Tony Stark, Mob Typical Violence, Multi, Period Typical Attitudes, Period Typical Language
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2020-12-04
Updated: 2021-02-02
Packaged: 2021-03-10 05:00:14
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 7
Words: 48,020
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/27878753
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Emberxashton/pseuds/Emberxashton
Summary: Part 13 of the "Tony Stark is an insane 1920's Mob Boss and there's sex everywhere" fic, which, okay, SOME OF YOU ARE ASKING FOR MORE. I'll write more as long as you ask for it, ya crazy mooks.~~~Sometimes, you shouldn't peek through closed doors.You might not like what- orwho- you find on the other side.
Series: Roaring Hot [13]
Series URL: https://archiveofourown.org/series/1591804
Comments: 426
Kudos: 326





	1. In Trouble

**Author's Note:**

> From CJ (TellMeNoAgain): While it lists me as co-author, I did nothing. This baby is ALLLL Emberxashton, and I merely watched breathlessly as it came to life right in front of my eyes. They've been so patient with me, writing this story and then waiting months for me to be ready to post it. I know you're going to enjoy it- I'll meet you in the comment section so we can scream together, and I'll meet you in the next story as the main author again (as Ember takes off with their own version of this AU with my full blessing- and full-throated screaming in _their_ comment section). Have fun- it's a wild ride!
> 
> From Emberxashton:  
> Thank you for reading this story! I sincerely hope you enjoy it.  
> I'd like to give a brief trigger warning for the violence in Chapter 2, but overall there shouldn't be any other triggering content.  
> Thank you to everyone, but special thanks to CJ and mindwiped, who beta'd this fic.
> 
> (CJ's final word: Chapter 2 is no worse than canon violence. You all know how squeamish I am about violence and I was fine, but aren't they sweet for reminding you to take care of yourself? If you're nervous, you can always email me at tellmenoagainplease@gmail.com and I'll describe the violence or summarize the plot points of the chapter so you can skip it- don't let it deter you from reading!)

He was in trouble. So much trouble. Heart pumping, chest constricting, temples throbbing. Peter couldn’t wrap his head around what he had just done and yet it was all he could think about. He ran. He ran from Tony. His Tony. No, not _his_ Tony. The Butcher. He ran from _him_ , the Butcher. And not just the Butcher, he ran from all of them. The Devils, the Angels. All of them.

And they let him get away.

That was the part he couldn’t believe. He got away lickety split. Gone. Poof! A puff of smoke and he vanishes in thin air. Granted there was no way it would last for long. They were going to find him. He knew it as sure as he knew his heart would keep pounding in his chest. Just like the night those idiot mooks and Clint’s idiot brother took him for a ride and foolishly attempted to ransom him off. He knew it just like he knew it now. Only this time he wasn’t going to find the same relief when the Devils came running for him.

He didn’t mean to walk in on them. He was just going to show Tony his newest modification to one of the guns after spending the day in the workshop. He didn’t realize the door wasn’t supposed to be open. Didn’t realize Tony was conducting the Devil’s business. If he had known, he would have gone another way and showed Steve or Happy his handiwork. Even Mr. Jarvis. He would have been good.

Running away wasn’t good.

Tony was so mad when he saw Peter. He couldn’t forget how the confusion shifted to shock before turning into a cold rage Peter’s never seen before. It was scary how quickly the emotions changed on his face, how quick those eyes hardened. Heart dropping at the sight, Peter remembered how he dropped the gun and backed away like Tony was a charging boar. Then when Tony shouted “Peter!” he just took off running in blind panic.

It was like the day at the raceway with the bikes and chariots, but oh so different at the same time. That was a slow burn from a week of dealing with Bucky’s anger and Harley’s absences, finding out the truth and dealing with Harley’s foolish choices, the threats that Bucky was spewing while pulling out his belt, and then the coup de gras of hearing Harley’s yelps pushed Peter into running away from it all. This though. This was sudden, jarring, and left Peter in far worse shape than before.

At some point Peter finally slowed down and collapsed to the hot and dirty ground. Leaning against a nearby building, wrapping his arms around his legs, tucking his knees into his chest, and leaning his aching head down to breathe. _Just breathe._ He focused on that, the one thing he had control over, and before he knew it, he was sobbing into his grey pants. How could he have been so stupid? Steve was going to throttle him, so was Bucky and Harley, maybe even Clint. He really hoped Tasha didn’t, she was just as scary as Tony’s furious gaze nearly every day.

He had no idea what Tony would do.

“Hey, kid,” a deep, grunting voice sounded from above him, “you’re going to want to move.”

Peter looked up.

Eyes popping wide and gasping in utter fear, Peter took in the image of the giant and hulking body of the man standing above him, peering down with a firm, unwavering gaze. He was built like a brick wall. Muscles bulging and stretching his skin almost painfully, veins protruding from the thick muscles in his arms. He wore an undershirt stained with dirt and sweat, trousers stitched and re-stitched at the seams, workman’s boots, and a hat that was tucked into his back pocket. There were scars on his skin, deeper and angrier than Harley’s, particularly around the knuckles on his hands. He held a sledgehammer in one that was slung over his shoulders, the other wiping the sweat off his brow. Face bearded and gruff, hair shaggy and unkempt.

If Bucky was a wolf, then this man was a bear. If Peter had to pick a winner of a fight between the two of them, he found himself leaning towards this guy. Maybe it was the intense expression? Maybe it was the blatant scars he flaunted without realizing it? Maybe it was the unabashed way he handled himself and that hammer? Maybe-

“Kid,” the man spoke louder, “you hear me?”

Peter shook himself, but it didn’t help. He was terrified. Couldn’t make his voice work even if he tried.

The man sighed, “Shit.” He swung the hammer off his shoulders, steadied it before dropping the heavy metal side to the ground, and moved with unprecedented speed towards Peter. So fast he didn’t have time to blink, the scarred and calloused hands grabbed the front of Peter’s shirt, lifted him from the ground to his feet, and abruptly pulled him away from the spot. Not even a second later there was a loud shout from above.

“Head’s up!” a voice called as the man continued to pull Peter away, meekly struggling the whole way. He pushed Peter onto a barrel, forcing him to sit as he pointed up above. Seconds later, brown colored liquid splashed all along the dirty ground. The ground where Peter was just sitting before the man grabbed him. He grimaced at the sight of it as the man patted him on the shoulder.

“You look like Jacob Marley just visited your doorstep; didn’t think you’d appreciate a shit shower on top of that.” The man grunted, looking at Peter carefully. “Do you even know where you are, kid?”

Peter focused on breathing, watching the man just as intently as the man was watching him. He didn’t seem bad. Apart from the scars and rough demeanor, he almost reminded Peter of Uncle Ben. Just rougher and stiffer. Realizing the man was waiting for an answer, Peter shook his head in fast, jerky motions.

“Yeah, I figured.” He grabbed Peter by the shoulder and roughly turned him to face away from the building. “You’re at a construction site kid, and it ain’t safe for you here. Best head on home.”

Home. Peter didn’t think it was safe there either. At least not right now. He wanted to go home. Drop to his knees, apologize over and over again, plead with Tony that he didn’t mean to see what he saw, didn’t mean to run away. He wanted to hug Pepper tight. He wanted to sleep next to Harley, Steve, and Bucky, he wanted to-

“What’s got you so scared you can’t even move?” The man spoke again, this time softer, like he was starting to understand Peter’s plight without him uttering a single word. Peter shook his head again, feeling the tears flow down his cheeks. The man growled, but it didn’t sound angry. More frustrated, perhaps even protective? Peter couldn’t tell. He placed his hand on Peter’s shoulder once more, easing him forward off the metal barrel to stand shakily on his feet. Peter looked up at him, noting how large he truly was. He really was a bear of a man. Bigger than Bucky, bigger than Steve, he might even be bigger than Ben Grimm, only leaner. He stretched out his muscular arm and pointed towards a small, rundown shop directly in front of them. “You see that place? It says ‘Nelson and Murdock’ on the window. Head on over, tell Karen that Frank sent you to get a glass of water, and he’ll be there in a minute. Can you do that?”

Peter nodded. What else was he to do? He couldn’t just stay here, yet he couldn’t go home without facing the wrath of his family.

The man nodded, shaking his shoulder slightly in a manner that seemed to be friendly. “Good, now go ahead. I’ll catch up.”

The shop was not a shop, it was a bar, and the interior did not match the dingy exterior. It was clean, smelled of fresh sawdust, and only had three people inside. A pretty blonde woman behind the counter was washing glasses and wiping down the counter, a man with dark hair was playing a smooth jazz tune on the piano at the far edge of the room, and another man wearing a haggard expression was looking over documents at one of the tables while smoking a cigarette.

“Hey sweetie,” the woman behind the counter spoke kindly, offering him a cautious smile as her eyes took him in. “What can I get you?”

Peter froze, unable to speak, lips trembling and tears falling. She lost her smile, a concerned look crossing her expression. The music stopped.

“Get him a water, Karen. Frank sent him over. He’ll be here in a minute.” The man at the piano stated in a calm, orderly tone. The woman briefly muttered, “Goddammit,” before flipping the glass in her hand and setting it face down on the counter. She turned away to grab a better one as the man turned his head slightly, addressing Peter. “You play, kid?”

Peter shook his head.

“I’ll take your silence as a no. C’mon on over and let me show you how.” He shifted to the right, patting the left side of the bench. “Don’t worry, I won’t bite.”

With a quick glance about the room, Peter moved towards the piano and took the designated spot, taking in the man as he did.

He was fit, too. Not nearly as much as the other man- Frank, his name was _Frank-_ but certainly enough to still present a threat. Around Bucky’s size, but leaner. He was handsome, too. Peter couldn’t help but notice. Dark hair fell into his face slightly though it wasn’t long like Frank’s, slight stubble across the bottom half of his face. Brown eyes opened wide, but not in shock or surprise, just wide and open. Peter cocked his head at that, wondering and pondering. He took in the surroundings, noting the lack of music on the stand and strange markings on the piano keys. They looked strange yet somewhat familiar. He’s seen them somewhere before, reading a book about braille, a language created to help-

“You’re blind,” Peter uttered softly.

The man smiled, laughing at the comment. “So, you do talk. That’s good to know. Conversation tends to help the teaching process move along more smoothly.”

Peter choked, realizing what he had said, “I’m s-so sorry, t-that was rude of me.”

“No need. You were stating a fact, a well-known fact around these parts.” The man shrugged. “What gave it away?”

“Um,” Peter rubbed his neck, feeling the blush already starting to form, “a few things.”

“What things?”

“Your eyes are really big, w-wide open I mean,” Peter gulped, “there’s no music on the stand, and the piano keys are marked with braille.”

He hummed, smile broadening, “You read braille?”

“I-I read a book about Helen Keller.”

“Why?”

Pete shrugged. “I just wanted to. It looked interesting.”

“Most people would disagree with you,” the man commented. Karen came by with Peter’s water, setting it gently on top of the piano. “Thank you Karen. Go ahead and take a drink, running through the streets like that on a hot summer day is bound to leave anyone parched.” He played a few notes on the piano keys, a brief and flighty melody. “Read a lot of books most people wouldn’t find interesting?”

“I guess so,” Peter reached out to grab the glass but stopped when he saw how badly his hand was shaking, “I read one about Darwin and the Species.”

The man hummed, standing and leaning slightly to grab the glass and holding it out to Peter as he sat back down. “Both hands.”

Peter did so, the glass cool against his palms. “How did you-”

“You sound smart, why don’t you think about it while I play a little tune. Pay attention to what my left hand is doing.”

Peter nodded, taking a sip of the water and watched the man’s hands move with careful precision. Gliding along the keys like a fish in a pond. His right hand was on fire playing the upbeat melody of the song while his left stayed in roughly the same spot, keeping the beat. He memorized the beat, noted the placement of the man’s hands. Peter had the sinking feeling this man wanted him to play. He took another sip of water and prepared himself.

The man laughed suddenly, “Kid, that building Frank’s helping put together is going to be old and rusted by the time you finish that water. Drink up, I know you’ve got to be thirsty after a run like that.”

Peter eyed the man curiously, “You heard that?”

He nodded. “Also heard Frank save you from a shit shower. He don’t do that for just anyone so count yourself lucky. Certainly didn’t save me when I was over there one day.”

Peter’s lips quirked. “If you heard that outside and all the way across the street, that means you heard where Karen put the glass. Right?”

The man grinned, continuing his tune. “Name’s Matt. Matt Murdock.”

Peter responded shyly, “My name’s Peter.”

“Nice to meet you, Peter. Think you can play the bass line for me? Foggy over there never has time to play it with me,” he taunted, tossing his head to address the haggard looking man at the table.

“One of us has to take his job seriously or else the place will get shut down and bought out by The Butcher,” the other man, Foggy, complained. “And I, for one, like living here.”

“Oh c’mon, you know I take my job seriously. Just ask Jessica and our latest catch from a couple nights ago. Caught us a fighter, almost put her down for the count.”

“Lucky us, we have to defend him at the courthouse tomorrow morning. Something that will definitely go so much smoother if you would just help me instead of playing footsy at the piano with a scared kid.”

Peter’s eyes went wide at that, taking another sip of the water to hide it. Matt laughed, shaking his head. “Don’t mind Foggy, he gets like this when business is slow. Makes him nervous. The Butcher has been going around and buying up everything in the neighborhood, and we’re one of the only places that’s managed to stay open and our own. Now, you ready to play?”

Peter gulped, “I can try.”

“That’s the spirit.” Matt nodded towards the top of the piano. “Put your water down and let’s get started.”

It was easier than Peter thought. Fun too. Focusing on the keys, playing alongside the calm presence of the man next to him. It put him at ease. He was still terrified of what he knew was coming for him, but right now he felt okay. Matt was a savant at the piano. Fingers whizzing through the keys and creating a complicated yet elegant melody. It was still a simple tune, but he made it so much more now that he had another hand to play with.

“How far can you hear?” Peter asked suddenly, watching Matt carefully.

He hummed, “Normally about two streets in every direction, three if it’s quiet like today. If I pay attention though and really listen, I could hear out to five, but I’d have to be really listening for something, or someone.”

“What can you hear now?”

“Construction. Frank’s swinging the hammer and breaking down the last of the foundation from the former estate. I give him a minute before he makes his way over. Not the type to leave a job unfinished. Claire, a woman you passed one street over, is whooping her nephew for stealing a piece of candy. Kid says he only did it because she deserved all the candy in the world, but he just wanted to impress a girl from school. She’ll give him an extra whooping for that tonight. Karen keeps muttering under breath on how much of an idiot I am, and Foggy is reciting law precedents in preparation for tomorrow.”

Wide eyed, Peter’s lip quirked in amazement. “You can really hear all of that?”

Matt nodded, “Been that way since I was eight years old. Some putz poured acid in my eyes after Dad beat him in a fight. The putz did it as payback. Sore loser and all that.”

“I’m sorry,” Peter muttered, heart pinging in his chest. 

“Why? Are you the one who blinded me?” Matt chuckled.

“No sir-” 

“Whoa, none of that here,” Matt interrupted. “Sirs are for Lords, Generals, and wealthy men who think they’ve earned the respect of being called as such. It’s Matt, Karen, Foggy, and Frank when he makes it in here. Okay?”

Peter nodded. “Okay . . . Matt.”

“Okay Peter.” He wiggled his eyebrows, and Peter couldn’t help but laugh with him. 

“Why is Karen calling you an idiot?” Peter asked suddenly, curiously at ease. 

Matt stopped playing. Peter stopped after a few more notes. Matt shifted to face him, a slight smile on his face. “Because you're Peter Stark, the newly adopted son of The Butcher of New York, and I’m sitting here teaching you how to play piano instead of sending word of your whereabouts.”

Peter froze, the shakes coming back with full force. “H-How did you-“

“You came running down the street like the hounds of hell were after you. Collapsed to the ground and started crying like a baby. Frank normally kicks kids to the curb and tells them to beat it, but with you he picked you up and sent you here which confirms how scared you really are. Frank doesn’t take pity, but he’ll help if he thinks someone deserves it.” He laughed suddenly, “You’re lucky.”

Peter wrapped his arms around his waist to control his shakes. “H-How?”

“Starks aren’t welcome around here. They might own New York, but this neighborhood don’t care. Frank especially. You’re lucky because The Punisher decided you were good.” He reached his hand out and touched Peter’s face before Peter could stop him, breath hitching as he did. He didn’t move once Matt had him, noting the worn and calloused state of Matt’s hands as they felt his eyes, nose, mouth. Taking in the rough image that was Peter. They were just like Bucky and Steve’s. “Wow, an honest face in that family? That’s a shock. They must have plucked you out of a boy’s home and never looked back.” He hummed again, moving his hand to grab Peter’s hand from around his waist. Peter didn’t fight it. No good would come of fighting it. “Soft hands, fancy cologne, polite and docile demeanor, yet running wild through these streets without a care for where you’re going.” He tsked, releasing Peter’s hand to grab the glass of water. “Drink up Peter Stark, Frank’s going to want to talk to you.”

With shaking hands, Peter took the glass from Matt, and not even a second later the door burst open behind them with a loud crash. Peter and Matt both turned to look at the sound- Matt with a calm, expectant look, Peter in sheer terror. _There he was again._ The bear of a man covered in sweat and dirt, sledgehammer in hand with a dark look in his eyes. Peter shrank in on himself, fighting the urge to sink to the floor. 

“Murdock,” the man grunted, setting the sledgehammer down and leaning it against the threshold of the doorway. 

“Frank,” Matt smiled, “good of you to join us.”

“Where’s Karen?” Frank asked in his gruff way when the blonde woman appeared once more. 

“Frank, why is he here?” She gestured to Peter with an angry expression. “Why would you send a Stark into my bar?”

“Because he’s a kid who was scared out of his wits and panting like he couldn’t breathe. Don’t tell me you wouldn’t have done the same thing with that bleeding heart of yours,” Frank returned, voice still rough but not as much as before. 

Karen sighed, wiping her face with the back of her hand, “He’s dangerous. They all are.”

Frank glared at her, purposefully pointing at Peter trembling away on the piano bench. “Does he look like a butcher to you?”

“You and I both know it’s not just butchers in that brigade,” Karen shot back, but there was no heat in her tone. 

“Plenty of white collars though,” Matt countered, standing from the bench and stretching his back. “Doubt they’re the ones that sent one of the heirs to that entire kingdom running for the hills, though.”

Peter didn’t know what to do. He tried to control his breathing. _This was bad._ That’s all he could focus on- how bad this was. Not only did he walk in on Devilside business and run away, he also allowed himself to be taken into a secluded bar with strangers who seemed at least partially aware of Tony’s business. _This was so bad._ Could he even go home after this? Peter couldn’t think of a time he’d been this dumb before. What would Phil think of all of this? Steve and Bucky were going to throttle him. He didn’t want to think about what Tony would do. 

“I’m s-sorry for causing you trouble,” Peter stuttered, moving to stand from the bench, “I’ll get out of your hair.”

“No you won’t.” Frank stepped towards Peter while Matt placed a firm hand on Peter’s shoulder. “You’re going to sit there, drink that water, and tell me exactly what happened.”

Peter gasped at that, almost dropping the water in question. With reflexes Peter never would have believed, Matt swooped in and steadied the glass before it could slip from Peter’s shaking hands. “Or how about we move this to a table to avoid the risk of broken glass and Karen’s wrath?”

Karen scoffed, “More like Jessica’s wrath. She’s the only one who takes the time to clean the glasses in time for opening. Unlike certain individuals with appendages between their legs.” She gestured to the men in the room. Foggy had the decency to look ashamed. Frank and Matt just stared at her. Karen rolled her eyes, waving Peter forward. “C’mon little Prince, take a seat at the table.”

Peter did as he was told, though not without reluctance. Matt kept his strong hand on Peter’s shoulder as they moved in unison to where Foggy was sitting. The haggard man sighed at the intrusion, shaking his head while shifting his papers into a pile. “Of course you choose this one. There are three other tables in this joint, and you just had to choose this one.” Foggy glared at Matt. “Do you like stressing me out?”

“I can see how it might seem like a point of contention in our valued friendship, but I can’t help it, Foggy. You make it so easy to stress you out. Besides, this is the only table that’s out of direct sunlight. Wouldn’t want the Little Prince to keel over before we have a chance to hear his side of the story. Do we?”

Both Foggy and Peter looked at Matt in confusion. “How the Hell do you do that? You know what, no. Don’t tell me. I’m just going to move and escape this craziness before something else pops up and gives me a headache.”

Before he had the chance to stand from his seat, there was a crash at the back of the bar. “Oh God,” Foggy muttered, dropping his head into his hands. “Not now.”

Like a whirlwind of frustrated fury, another figure burst into the room through a back door Peter had failed to see before. Dark hair, pale skin, heavy lidded eyes, and shabby clothes flew into the room and headed straight for the group in the middle of the bar. “You are not going to believe what I just-” the figure was saying. Speech slightly slurred yet clearly spoken. 

Peter’s eyes went wide. The figure was a woman. A woman wearing men’s workman clothes. They were big on her, but not overtly so. Her hair was damp with sweat and tied back in a misshapen braid, almost as if she did it in a hurry. Peter was slightly confused by that until he saw the cap she held in her hand. She must have braided it so it’d be easier to tuck into the hat, thus hiding her gender, and allowing her to blend in. Why, though? Why do it at all? She had no jacket. Only a shapeless shirt with sleeves rolled at the elbows, a loosened tie, and dark trousers that appeared to scuff the ground as she walked. 

She froze at the sight of Peter trembling next to Matt and the downcast Foggy. Incredulous. The picture of disbelief in her expression before shifting to annoyed acceptance. Scoffing, shaking her head, she turned to Karen. 

“Where’s the goddamn whiskey?”

“Secret spot beneath the cabinet, just where you like it,” Karen responded with a sigh. “Check the glasses before you use them. The boys are extra lazy today.”

“That’s what happens when you hire lawyers to bartend. They don’t clean shit, they just defend the upstanding citizens of Hell’s Kitchen to the courts and hope we’ll clean up their shit for them.”

“What does that say about you, Ms. Private Investigator/Bounty Hunter?” Matt smirked, rubbing Peter’s shoulder assuringly. It didn’t really help. Peter’s nerves were firing on all pistons, leaving him breathless and on the verge of collapse. 

The woman disappeared behind the bar. “I clean the streets for a living.” She reappeared with a gigantic bottle filled with dark liquid, slamming it on the hard wood countertop. “Yet I still find time to clean up my own mess.”

“Yes, our holy paragon of goodness.” Matt squeezed Peter’s shoulder again. “Peter, this is Jessica Jones. She’s hired to find people who make the unfortunate choice of fleeing the law, and sometimes she even brings them to justice.”

“And the rest of the time I take them to The Punisher for a bullet in the brain.” Jessica popped the top off the bottle and began pouring her drink after double checking a glass to make sure it was clean. Once it was sufficiently filled she set the bottle down, grabbed the glass, and gulped it all down in a manner of seconds. Peter’s jaw dropped. The amount she drank was more than what Tony normally put in his glass, and he always sipped to savor the flavor. This woman though, _Jessica Jones_ , just drank an entire glass in what had to be 2 or 3 gulps tops. She slammed the glass back on the table, and began pouring another one. 

The moment it was poured, she set the bottle back down and pointed angrily at the men in the room. “Who did it?”

“I did,” Frank stated, wearing an expression that scared the Bejeezus out of Peter. He felt his body start sinking to the floor. This was too much. He hasn’t encountered this type of craziness since his first week at Stark Mansion. The week before he officially became Peter Stark. Matt felt him slipping and immediately guided him to the chair next to Foggy. Foggy sighed in defeat and flipped his papers over, to hide their contents from Peter’s wandering eyes. “We’re in for it now,” Foggy muttered under his breath.

“What the Hell, Frank?! Like we don’t have enough shit to deal with, you have to bring in The Butcher’s kid?”

“He was scared shitless. Looked like someone might be after him. Someone looking to hurt him. He’s not like the rest-”

“Why? Because he has an angel face? Give me a break.” Jessica took another drink, though not nearly as much as the first time. “Have any of you heard what the Hell is going on out there?”

All eyes turned to Matt. He sighed, settling in on the other side of the table, turning his body in the chair so he still faced everyone in the room. “Tony Stark has put the word out. For now, trusted sources are to be on the lookout for the kid, but if he’s still missing by nightfall everyone in New York is going to be looking for him.”

Foggy lifted his head. “What do you mean _everyone_?”

Matt chuckled, but he didn’t sound amused. It was almost harsh in its tone, firm and displeased. “How many trusted sources have we come across that turned out to be turncoats? Like that Sitwell character that was thrown in the river a few months back for sending pertinent information to the Kingpin? And ghosts like the mysterious Deadpool. No one can ever find that guy, just the bodies he leaves behind wearing those red and black masks. We might be small time, but even The Butcher and his Devils deal with that kind of shit too. With something like this, I have no doubt it’ll be all over the place by sunset.”

“And what then?” Peter asked, voice small and meek. He didn’t mean to ask, but he had to know. “What’s going to happen?”

All eyes turned to him. He shrank in on himself, but kept his gaze on Matt’s. Even though the man couldn’t technically see him, he knew he had the man’s attention. 

“There’s something you need to know, Peter. Something about us I don’t think you’ve fully realized just yet.” Matt placed the forgotten glass of water in front of Peter. He didn’t even realize it was gone until Matt suddenly pushed it closer. “We don’t cut corners. If you ask us a question, we’re going to give you an honest answer. As close to the truth as we can get. No bullshit, no dilly dallying, just the truth. Most people can’t handle that about us. Most people even hate us for it, and you know what, we don’t care.” Matt shrugged, nonchalant and aloof. 

Frank suddenly moved towards the table, grabbing the one empty chair directly across from Peter and plopping into it. Peter felt the urge to back away, but resisted it. He took in a deep, steadying breath as he stared the bear of a man down.

“You can ask your questions, Pete, but remember this. Some questions are wholly innocent and clean until you ask the wrong people. Ask them and the answers are going to be dirty and filled with something you don’t want to feel. Understand? If you ask us, we’ll tell you. Just make sure you’re ready for the answer you’ll hear before you decide to ask your question. Okay?” 

Peter nodded, taking another few breaths to steady his quaking nerves. 

“So, Peter, are you sure you want that question answered?” Matt asked, tilting his head towards Peter while his eyes stared at nothing. They were brown, Peter idly noticed. It was a warm color, and it oddly matched the man sitting next to Frank. He didn’t know how it matched. His personality seemed overtly cool, like a stiff breeze at the beginning of autumn. Smooth and calm, yet those eyes said something else. Like something brewed deep within. Frank seemed the opposite. His eyes were cold yet his demeanor was wild. Like a hot poker just before it’s placed in a bucket of water. Rough and tough on the outside, but something dark and unyielding festered within. 

So at odds the two men were, and Peter for the life of him couldn’t figure out how he knew that. 

“Peter?” Matt asked once more. Peter shook himself, forcing his mind to focus. Was he ready to hear the truth? Probably not. Peter was sure he’d end up breaking to pieces if Tony and the rest didn’t find him soon. Did he need to know it though?

Shakily, in a trembling voice, “Yes,” Peter responded, “I want to know. I need to know.”

Matt nodded, “Okay. Here it goes.” He stretched his back, grunting in his exertion, “C’mon ladies. Grab a chair. There’s plenty of room and plenty of whiskey to go around. That is, if Jessica’s willing to share.”

“Fuck off,” Jessica grunted, pulling off the tie and throwing into a corner somewhere before grabbing both the bottle and her glass. “Karen, grab a glass for you and the kid. He’s going to need it.”

Peter gulped. He’s only ever drank around his family, but he didn’t think it was the best choice to tell her no when she was wearing that angry expression on her face. Saying no when anyone wore that type of expression had never gotten Peter anywhere good. _Especially with Bucky._ The ladies headed over in unison. Frank stood and offered his chair to Karen, grabbing another to slide in between her and Peter. He gulped at that. Even moreso when he caught a whiff of the man’s musky scent, surprised to find that he wasn’t repulsed by it. In fact, it was almost pleasant. Matt offered Jessica his chair, but she grabbed one of her own and shifted to sit between Foggy and Peter. He shivered in fear at that.

Once she was sitting, she looked down at him. He stared back in terror. At first her gaze was steely and untrusting. As she genuinely took him in, gauging the extent of his fear, the steel in her surprisingly bright eyes ebbed. “Damn, you are a good one, aren’t you?”

His lips trembled. “I-I t-try to be.”

“Let me guess, boys home. Right?” Jessica surmised, taking another drink from her glass while Karen slid one in front of him. It looked clean, a bit foggy, but Peter wasn’t complaining. “That Harley kid dropped by and-”

“ _Don’t_ talk about Harley,” Peter interrupted in a fierce tone, surprising himself, “he’s my brother and I don’t want to hear you speak badly about him. Okay?”

Her eyebrows shot up, a slight amount of steel came back to her eyes. Peter, shocking himself, stared back defiantly. Maybe it was the frayed nerves. Maybe everything was starting to crash down all around him. Didn’t matter. All he knew was that no matter how mad and disappointed everyone was going to be with him when they found him, he was not going to listen to someone bad mouth Harley on top of everything else he’d experienced today. That was where he drew the line. 

Even more shocking, Jessica nodded. 

“Okay,” she grabbed the bottle and poured an inch worth of the whiskey into the glass, “no Harley talk.”

Peter sighed in relief, then nodded sternly to her in return. Once she was done pouring, he grabbed the glass and lifted it to his lips. It wasn’t as bad as the vodka ‘Tasha had him try his first night out with everyone, but it burned just the same. He got it down as smoothly as he could, then reached for the water and took a huge gulp of it. He really was parched. He caught a glimpse of Matt smiling momentarily before it melted away. 

“Alright. Word is officially out about Peter’s disappearance. Where did you hear it, Jessica?”

“On the trolley. I was heading back from the Manhattan District. Some guy was talking about it.”

“What kind of clothes was he wearing?” Matt asked, tapping the table with his fingers. 

“Shabby. Workman’s clothes but cleaner than mine. Irishman coming home from work, it seemed.”

Matt nodded, “Were people talking about it when you made it back?”

“Not on the trolley. I had just walked past Claire’s place when I heard a group of men talking to some of the local shopkeepers. These guys were fancy. Definitely thugs from one of the Five Families. Showing around his picture and everything.”

“Yeah, that’s what I heard a few minutes before Peter here showed up at Frank’s feet.” Matt gestured to Peter loosely, rolling his shoulders before leaning his elbows on the table. “If members from the Five Families are going around the neighborhoods, including Hell’s Kitchen of all places, then the wrong people are going to hear about it.”

“And they’ll send worse people to find the kid first,” Frank concluded, an angry set to his jaw. 

“To answer your question, Peter,” Matt directed, shifting to face Peter more properly, “if the news spreads throughout New York, and you’re still not found by sundown, then tonight will become Hell on Earth. Stark’s people will be looking, random people aiming for a score, or a favor with The Butcher will be looking, Fisk’s former followers will be looking, and people we don’t even know about will be looking. Now tell me Peter, out of that list, how many would bother to bring you home safe and sound?”

Peter didn’t answer, something else sparked his interest. “Fisk’s followers? I thought T-Mr. Stark ran Fisk out of New York years ago?”

“He did, but not his followers. There were too many of them, and the ones who revealed themselves were too wild to contain. Fisk, though I hate to admit it, did a lot of good for the neighborhood. Good that’s earned the loyalty of the majority of its citizens. It’s a big part of why Starks don’t come here. You never know who’s going to switch your gin and tonic out for acid and cyanide.” 

“You’re not one of them,” Peter noted, surprised by his revelation. “None of you are.”

Matt smirked, “How d’you figure that?”

“You don’t like Fisk.”

Matt shrugged. “Don’t mean I wouldn’t work for him-”

“No,” Peter interrupted, “you wouldn’t work for him. None of you would.” He took a steady breath, slowly putting the pieces together in his brain. “Your code wouldn’t let you.”

“Oh, so we have a code? And what exactly would that be, Little Prince?”

“Help the little guy,” Peter spoke assuredly. “Frank brought me in here because I was scared out of my wits and not thinking clearly. Karen started calming down when he told her the same thing and she saw me. Jessica took one look at me and realized the truth. I’m a Stark, but I’m not a devil. Foggy’s been too busy studying his case file because his client’s- your client’s- freedom depends on how well you both adequately represent him. Another little guy. With _you_ ,” he emphasised to Matt, “instead of calling out and informing someone of my whereabouts, you had Karen get me a glass of water and taught me how to play piano. You said it was because you didn’t have someone to play the bass line for you, but that’s not the case. You did it to calm me down. To help me think clearly. To help me.”

Peter took a moment to breathe, shivering at the sheer intensity in their gazes. “Guys like Fisk take advantage of the little guy. He doesn’t help them. He leans on them, makes them desperate, and leans on them more until they do what he wants. You don’t do that.” 

There was silence in the room. For a long moment none of them spoke. They weren’t angry, at least not from what Peter could tell, just intense. All sets of eyes fell on him, studying him, determining whether Peter was the real thing or not. He felt exposed, naked in a way he hadn’t experienced before with Harley, with Tony, with any of them. It was like they were looking deep into his soul and deciding whether he was worthy of their trust. Or at least, that’s what Peter was thinking. He could be totally wrong, made himself out to be even more of a dummy-

“Has anyone ever told you that you might be a bit too smart for your own good?” Foggy spoke suddenly, cocking an eyebrow.

Peter shook his head. “No. Never.”

“Well, allow me to be the first to tell you, kid. You’re too smart for your own good.” Foggy patted his back. “And surprisingly, I like that about you. Now, don’t let it get to your head. Drink some of that whiskey and listen up.”

Peter did as he was told, grimacing at the burn as Matt started speaking again, “Word’s out in Hell’s Kitchen, which is bad news for you and bad news for us, since we’re technically hiding you. Sun’ll be down soon, and the freaks will emerge the moment it does.”

Frank spoke up, voice dark and intimidating, “And once they catch wind of it they’ll tear up shops, burn down buildings, and attack anyone they see in search of him.”

“We should send out a signal,” Karen interjected, pouring herself a glass of whiskey. “Give our friends and allies a chance to fortify their shops and homes in preparation. Warn the people before blood can be shed.” 

“You’ll have to do it now,” Jessica tsked, finishing her glass and pouring another, “they won’t have much time otherwise. The Butcher works fast, everyone knows that, and if he’s prowling through the neighborhoods shit’s going to get bad real quick.”

Karen nodded, picking up her glass as she stood from the table and headed towards the phone. 

“Peter,” Frank stated, grasping Peter’s attention, “you’re not safe in this neighborhood.”

Peter nodded frantically. “I know.”

“Good,” Frank sighed, “now answer me this honestly, or as honestly you can. Alright? You don’t have to tell me what happened, you don’t have to tell me what drove you here, but you do have to tell me this. Are they going to hurt you if you go home?”

Peter shook his head. He remembered the rage in Tony’s- no, _The Butcher’s_ \- eyes. Remembered with perfect clarity how scared it made him, how scared he still was from it. He knew everyone was going to be so mad, so disappointed in his mistake. He deserved whatever punishment they gave him, but hurt him? No, Tony, _his_ Tony, would never let that happen. He was safe with them, he knew that deep in his heart. They would never, never hurt him. 

“I’m safe with them,” Peter spoke clearly, “I just saw something I shouldn’t. It made me really scared, and I ran before I could stop and think about what I was doing. Suddenly, I was off the property, jumping onto a trolley, and then after a while I jumped off and started running again until I-” Peter gestured to the construction site, “well you know that part already.”

“Yeah, I do.” Frank watched Peter, that same deciding look in his eyes. “What do you want to do, kid?”

“I want to go home,” Peter stated simply, voice breaking as he added, “but it’s not that simple.”

“You’re right, it ain’t that simple. Daylight’s running out, people are prowling, and you’re stuck in a neighborhood that will lynch you just for your name alone. Nevermind the fact that you look like a doll sitting on a pedestal waiting to be played with. Only it’s not going to be sweet little girls braiding your hair and hugging you tight while they go to sleep. You hear me?”

“I hear you,” Peter squeaked. 

“Good.” Frank glanced at Jessica and Matt before looking back at Peter. “Here’s the deal, kid. If you want, you can use the phone at the back of the bar and call out to your family so they can pick you up, but doing that will leave them just as vulnerable as you. Starks aren’t welcome here, and the people will make sure they know that. You can make a run for it while the sun’s still out. If that’s what you decide, we’re not going to stop you, but we’re also not going to help you. You leave now, you’re on your own. Understand?”

Peter nodded jerkily, and Frank continued, “But you can also stay here with us. If you do, and do what we tell you, then we’ll get you home in the morning. We are not risking our asses going out tonight, we’ll get killed doing it. We’re staying in and we’re going to survive. You stay, you might hear things no one’s ever prepared to hear. You might see things that’ll change your life forever. You stay, you’re going to feel what it’s like to be inside a battlezone, but we’ll be here to protect you as long as you do what we tell you. Okay? It’s not going to be pretty, it’s going to be hard, but if you trust us, trust me, then we’ll get you home. What’s it going to be, Peter?”

No one had ever laid it out for him like that. Not really. The Devilside, even Tony, tend to hold back when telling him stuff like this, and Steve sugarcoats his explanations. This was real. Straight to the point like Tasha's thrown daggers. It unnerved Peter just as much as he appreciated it. It made him feel included, like he was part of something. Part of a team. An equal. He never got that feeling from working with the family. He liked this feeling just as much as he was terrified of it. 

If he stayed, what would he have to do? Was he prepared for what might come? He thought about the things Steve had taught him, rolling with punches and simple maneuvers to get out of sticky situations. He thought about shooting practice and how well his aim had gotten with Clint’s help. He thought about Harley and his scars. He thought about Bucky and his temper. He thought about the Butcher’s eyes in the study. He thought about Pepper’s voice, so full of love and warmth. He really thought about Pepper and the kind look in her eyes. How she held him tight in a way that said she never wanted to let go of him. He thought about how she forgave him for running away last time. 

Would she forgive him this time?

Shakily, Peter asked, “If I don’t tell them where I’m at, can I still use the phone to call home?” He knew he wasn’t thinking clearly. That this wasn’t the best choice to be making right now. He didn’t care. He just wanted to hear Pepper’s voice and tell her how sorry he was. He didn’t mean for this to happen. It was an honest mistake that exploded into something terrible. “I swear I won’t tell them I’m here.”

Frank grunted, studying Peter’s quivering expression intently. He glanced at Jessica again, who shrugged and took another drink. Foggy grimaced, “Might as well,” before gathering up his papers. Then there was Matt. Still as a statue, Matt stared off into nothing, pondering the decision before him. He made a slight movement with his hands on the table, tapping the wood as if it were the piano keys and the melody he was playing not so long ago. Frank watched Matt with an expectant expression. Peter waited with bated breath.

“As long as one of us is standing next to the phone, you may call them. I’ll be listening in though, okay? If they’re pressuring you and I feel like you’re about to crack, then we’re hanging up the phone. Deal?”

Peter nodded gratefully. “Thank you.”

“C’mon kid.” Frank stood up, and Peter quickly followed. 

Karen had just hung up, appraising Peter with a careful expression. “You sure about this Frank?”

Frank didn’t speak, only nodded as he took the phone from her grasp and handed it to Peter. “Don’t take too long, it’ll only be worse if you do.”

It took a minute for Peter to remember the right number, but eventually he was able to pick up the receiver and request the operator. Then he had to wait. Pulse beating fast, his hands were shaking so hard he could barely hold the phone. Tears spilled over and ran down his cheeks. This was a bad choice, but after how today had gone, it wasn’t much of a surprise. He just wanted to tell Pepper he was sorry. 

“Operator speaking. To which line shall I direct you?” a kind woman’s voice spoke. 

“Designated Private line,” Peter muttered, giving her the appropriate info. 

“Is the call for business purposes? The owners of the home you’re trying to reach have placed a temporary ban on business calls.”

“No,” Peter shook his head, failing to keep his voice free from tears. “It-It’s personal. Please connect-connect me with them.”

“Right away, sir.” And then her voice disappeared, and the rings began. With every ring Peter’s heart pulsed with increasing pressure. He took deep breaths, willing the pain to go away. He needed to hear her voice. He needed it so badly that he couldn’t breathe. 

Someone answered the phone. 

“Stark Residence,” sounded the chipped, blunt accent of Jarvis. 

Peter took a breath, the pain his chest ebbing while his hands shook worse. “Jarvis, where’s Pepper?”

Pause. “Peter? Peter is that you?”

Peter snuffled, “May I talk to Pepper, please?”

Another pause, “Peter if this is you, I need you to tell me. Is this you?”

“Yes, Jarvis,” Peter tried to keep his voice clear around the tears, “p-please put Pepper on the phone.”

“Of course,” Jarvis relented just as Peter overheard a woman’s voice in the background. There was a shuffling noise, and then, “Peter!?”

It was Pepper. Peter started sobbing immediately. “I’m sorry.”

“Oh, Peter, it’s okay. It’s fine.” Her voice soothed him, even frantic and full of worry, it calmed the pain ebbing away in his chest. “Everything’s fine now. I’m right here, okay? I’m right here. Is this line secure? Is this on a private line?”

“I’m so sorry,” Peter cried, tears staining his shirt and falling onto the floor. “I didn’t mean to do all this. I swear.”

“I know, Peter. You’re a good angel, baby. So good. You’d never do anything like this. I know that, we _all_ know that. Okay? Just breathe, sweetie. Everything’s okay now.”

“He was so mad,” Peter whimpered, “I didn’t mean to do that.”

“I know, Angel. I know. We all know you didn’t mean too. Tony knows that too.” She sounded like she was holding back tears. “He’s not mad at you sweetie, he just wants to get you home where it’s safe. Okay? Do you hear me?”

“Yes, ma’am.” Peter wiped his face, but it didn’t stop the tears from coming. 

“Good, Angel, good. Now tell me where you are so we can come get you.”

Peter released another sob, hanging his head low. He shouldn’t have called. This was a bad idea. He’s only made things worse doing this. 

“Peter? Tell me where you are,” Pepper repeated, a sense of urgency leaking into her voice.

In a rather pathetic tone, Peter whimpered, “I can’t.”

Pepper gasped, “Angel, what do you mean you can’t?”

“I promised I wouldn’t say,” he replied honestly, “I just called to tell you I’m sorry.”

“Promised who? Peter, who did you promise? Are they around you?”

“I gotta go, Pepper. I’m sorry for messing up so bad.” Peter cried, readying himself to hang up.

“No! Peter! Stay on the line with me. Stay with me, sweetie.” Pepper pleaded, her urgent tone maximizing. “You stay with me. Don’t let them hang up the phone, just tell me where you are.”

“I’m sorry,” Peter whimpered, “I’m so sorry.”

Then with a heavy heart, and the sound of Pepper’s worried cries emanating from the speaker, Peter handed the phone to Frank who promptly hung it back on the stand. Ending the call. He sank to the ground, wrapping his arms around his legs and tucking them tight against his chest as he rested his head on his knees and cried his heart out. He was such a dummy. _Why would he do that?_ A heavy hand settled on his shoulder, and Frank grunted as he sank to the floor next to Peter, wrapping an arm around his shoulders and tucking him against his chest. 

“It’s okay,” Frank stated, his tone sure and unwavering. “We’re going to get you home. You’re going to hug her tight and apologize a million times and a million times more for worrying her. You’re going to sleep in your bed, fight and joke with that brother of yours, learn as many things that brain of yours will allow, and so much more. You’re going to make it home because we’re going to get you home. Do you understand me? Are you listening to me?”

Peter nodded, blearily turning his head to look at Frank. Those calloused fingers wiped away the tears from his face with a wet rag. It smelled funny, like it hadn’t been rinsed or washed out in a while. Once the tears were wiped away, Peter took in Frank’s stern, assured expression. “I promise you Peter, we’re going to get you home. Just listen to us, and you’ll be fine. Okay?”

He didn’t know what tonight was going to bring. They told him, sure, but it wasn’t the same as knowing from experience. After tonight, he was sure he’d know it for the rest of his life. He didn’t know what they expected of him, or what he expected of himself. Right now it didn’t matter. All that mattered was how he was going to face it. He thought about Bucky and Steve, how they reacted when they first went into the war. Imagined how they chose to face what was ahead of them. They wouldn’t have run screaming. They would have faced it head on. 

He took a deep, calming breath. “Tell me what I need to do.”


	2. Preparing for Battle

Matt and Frank weren’t kidding- not even an hour later the sun had disappeared behind the buildings in the neighborhood and was touching the ocean off in the distance. Peter was still jumpy, flinching and looking over his shoulder at every sound that occurred within the bar. No one laughed at him for it, but aside from a rare pat from Foggy and a reassuring smile from Matt, none of them took the initiative to comfort him, either. It wasn’t their job to, but more importantly, Peter realized it wasn’t in their nature to comfort. What Matt did was distract Peter from his panic by having him focus on something else. Frank just told him more of the truth, which just so happened to calm him down. 

Peter had the feeling they didn’t know how to comfort, and oddly enough he found that soothing in a way. There were no lies here, no secrets, no deceptions. It was just as they told him when they warned him about asking questions. They didn’t cut corners, they didn’t lie, they spoke the truth. They lived for the truth. Everything about them was honest, perhaps not like an open book, but more like seeing something with your own eyes without opinions and second hand stories distorting the image. They were, for lack of a better word, _real_. From the fanciful society he ran from into the darkness that was Hell’s Kitchen, Peter somehow found a line of reality amid the turmoil he was going through. 

He tried not to focus on it. Logistically, he knew it wouldn’t do anything except send him into another crying fit that would last for hours if he let it. With what was to happen tonight, and the warning from Frank on what could occur, Peter had to focus. They didn’t expect him to fight, and Peter was relieved by that, but they did expect him to stay out of the way and wait for the signal to run. That scared him. If they wanted him to run, that meant he would go out into the night- into the madness outside. He wasn’t going to be alone, Karen and Jessica would be with him, but in order to run he was going to have to _see_. His eyes would be open and they would see what was happening. See things that Tony doesn’t want him to see. Things that Tony and the rest of his family had tried so hard to shield him from, beginning the moment he signed his new name. 

If that signal came, Peter was going to see things he couldn't be prepared for. He could get lucky and the signal wouldn’t come. Or if it did, then Jessica and Karen would take him through a safe way where he wouldn’t have to shield his eyes from anything. Or maybe they’d take pity and blindfold him like Bucky and Harley had. His chin trembled at the thought of them. He missed them so much. He just wanted to go home, cuddle up with Steve, Bucky, and Harley with Tony watching over him while Pepper fussed over the state of him. He wanted to feel safe again. He knew he wasn’t in danger from the people inside, knew they would do their best to protect him and fend off other dangers, but he didn’t feel safe at all. 

He was aware though, and that was enough to control his breathing. 

Frank had disappeared with Jessica shortly after Peter finally got over his fit and only just a few minutes ago both returned wearing fresh clothes and carrying a bag full of weapons each. Frank didn’t hand any of his weapons to Matt or Foggy, but he did give Karen three guns. One a revolver and two Walther PPK semi-automatic pistols along with a cloth bag filled with Stark ammo. The Stark insignia on the bullet casings sent a pang through his heart. Frank’s bag was filled with guns, so it made sense that he wouldn’t give Matt any, but why not Foggy?

“I’m a terrible shot,” Foggy explained briefly while Frank was going over the specifics of each gun he gave to Karen, “couldn’t hit the side of a barn if I wanted to. It doesn’t help that my shoulder has never fully healed since I threw a bad pitch during a school ballgame. Thus, I’m left with the bat and setting the traps.” 

Jessica’s haul is what Peter considered the miscellaneous section of weapons. A bat, crowbar, poker, rope, wire, cloth wraps, and other items. Peter wasn’t sure what to make of them until she started dividing and handing them out. Matt got the cloth wraps, Frank got the crowbar, Foggy the bat, Jessica kept the poker for herself, and the rope and wire was given to Peter. He stared wide eyed at Frank, but Matt explained, “The wire is for trippin' people up, the rope is for escapin'. Foggy and Karen will help set it up.”

And that’s what Peter had just finished doing. He didn’t notice before that the bar was actually two stories. The staircase was hidden behind the liquor cabinet directly behind the bar, and it led to an open area that was clearly used as another place for people to drink in the joint. Secluded, yet if he looked over the railing he could see the bottom floor. That was where Peter, Karen, Foggy, and Jessica would make their stand- so to speak. 

Peter and Foggy set up a wire trap so that anyone who got past Matt and Frank would get tripped up by it near the top of the stairwell. Jessica would be there waiting, and once they fell she would use the poker to knock them out cold, or kill them if need be. Peter shivered at the possibility. Foggy would wait nearby in case Jessica got rushed by more than one. The bag with the miscellaneous items was actually a bunch of empty glass bottles. Karen, and Peter if he chose to, would lean over the railing and throw bottles down to help Frank and Matt in case they got overrun. They already moved the tables to block the openings in the railing so they would have coverage once the shooting started. Peter reminded himself to breathe through that preparation. 

Lastly, the rope was tied up to a pipe near a window in the hallway. Should they get completely overrun on the second floor, Peter and the rest would use the rope to climb down into the alleyway where together they would sneak over to their friend Claire’s, who served as their unofficial safehouse. It was a trek to her home, and there was a good possibility that they might not make it, but if they couldn’t make their stand at the bar it was the best option for them. Peter asked why they didn’t go there now if it was in fact the best option. 

Matt responded, “Leaving now is just as dangerous as leaving later. Besides, the bar is a better defense then Claire’s place. There’s also a stronger possibility you’ll be recognized now than it will be if we leave under the cover of darkness. Fires will be burning and people will be on the lookout- angry and drunk people- but you’ll be in different clothes and on the move with someone who knows the best way to Claire’s. All in all, if we decide it’s the best option, your chances are better at night.” 

“But what happens if we get separated?” Peter asked, afraid of the answer but needing to know all the same. 

Matt shrugged. “Plenty of places to hide in the dark. You could wait it out until you see one of us, or until first light. By then the fighting should be over and whoever’s conscious can take you home. Other than that, all I can say is: Good luck.”

Definitely the best comfort, but Peter was starting to understand that. This gang offered the truth, not stories meant to ease while sugarcoating things he needed to know. He knew it was a risky question, and now he knew what to prepare for. His nerves weren’t settled at all, but in this situation perhaps it was better that his nerves were rattled. Being on edge meant faster reflexes, right? If so, Peter doubted he would ever move this fast again, because he was sure if Tony didn’t do it, then Steve was going to stick him in a barrel and feed him through the bunghole to live out the rest of his days.

If that was the case, might as well enjoy what he could before Steve got his hands on him. Or worse, if _Bucky_ got his hands on him. Peter shivered, memories of how the man held him down while Harley “apologized” rolled through him and left him even more terrified. He ended up finishing his glass of whiskey and was currently on his second glass of water. Jessica kept coming by to offer him a shot from the bottle and for the most part he declined, but as the sun continued to disappear he broke down and took a few small sips to steady his nerves. It helped up to a point, but it wasn’t a permanent fix. It was probably why Jessica kept offering him more. There was a part of him that wanted to keep drinking, but after his third sip he decided against it. Yes, the whiskey was calming him down but it also dulled his senses. He needed to stay aware, keep sharp, and be prepared for the night ahead. 

Eventually, Peter leaned past the table barricade to look over the railing in search of Matt. “Hey Matt?” he spoke clearly, knowing Matt would hear him without having to yell. 

Matt walked into view, wrapping one of the cloth strips around his knuckles. “Yes, Peter?”

“Why are you down there with Frank? Shouldn’t you be up here with us?” It was a question that had been nagging him for a while. Peter felt horrible for thinking it, but Matt _was_ blind. It made sense for someone who was incapacitated to be where the action was more than likely going to be less chaotic, or so Peter hoped. 

Matt smirked, tapping his ears. “I don’t need eyes to see, Peter. Besides, what you’re going to encounter tonight is almost a nightly occurrence here in Hell’s Kitchen. The only difference is the sheer number of those who mean to attack us. Just stay with Karen and Jessica as best as you can. Don’t worry about the rest of us.”

“How do you know they’ll be coming here?” 

Matt sighed, grabbing another strip of cloth and beginning the process of tying it around the other hand. “We’ve made quite the reputation around the neighborhood. When something goes wrong, when shit goes down, or runaway princes are seen in the neighborhood, everyone knows to check here first. They’re aware of what I can do, they know what Jessica does for a living, and everyone’s heard the story of Frank Castle. Otherwise known as The Punisher.”

“The Punisher?” Peter had a bad feeling about that. Nicknames like _Butcher, Wolf, Hellcat, Black Widow_ \- they were very different from nicknames like _Captain_ and _Angel_ , and he’d learned, in just a short few months, to be wary of the names people let their closest associates call them. 

“Not my story to tell.” Matt shook his head. “That’s one you’re going to have to ask him for and now’s not a good time. The point is, this is the place where the people of Hell’s Kitchen go when they’re looking for something. Doesn’t really matter what it is, answers, people, trouble, or something else. They’ll find it here.”

“So they’re going to look here just because people are talking about me running away?”

Matt shrugged, “It might not have been as bad if it was just talk. Unfortunately, someone saw you jump off a trolley and run toward the construction site. As far as I’ve heard,” Matt cocked his head slightly, “no one’s mentioned Frank-”

“But the construction site is right in front of your bar,” Peter concluded in a whisper.

Matt nodded. “With our reputation, only a dead man or an outsider would fail to make that connection.” He gingerly tucked the end of the cloth strip before grabbing yet another one, this time covering his eyes. “Don’t board the pity train until you’re safe and someone can ride it with you. Understand? We all make mistakes that create consequences far bigger and catastrophic than we can believe. Better to learn it now while you’re young, and have time to change, versus later in life when you’re already set in your ways. Okay?”

Peter nodded. “Okay.”

“Good.” Matt looped the cloth around his eyes once more before tying it behind his head. “Foggy has some clothes upstairs you can change into. They belong to a friend of ours that comes around from time to time, and luckily she’s about your size. Fancy clothes like yours won’t do you any good if you’re forced into hiding. Go on.”

“She?” Peter asked in a bewildered tone.

Matt grunted in amusement, “Jessica ain’t the only gal to wear men’s clothes for a living.”

And with that, Matt turned away and moved out of sight. Foggy directed Peter down the hallway where their emergency escape was set up at the window. There was a door on the right that led into a bedroom. Foggy pushed Peter inside and directed him to the clothes pile, and then closed the door. 

As Peter changed, he tried not to think, choosing instead to place his focus on what he could feel. Not with his heart, but his fingers. He noted the softness of the fabric from his clothes versus the coarseness of the stranger’s clothes. Noted the darker hues versus the pale ones Pepper always dressed him in. A small bit of relief went through him when he realized he didn’t have anything of value on him except for the clothes on his back. No cufflinks, no pocket watch, no spats, nothing but his shiny shoes that he most certainly planned on keeping. They were comfy and easy to run in, but more importantly, they were dark and inconspicuous. They woiuldn’t stand out if he was forced to leave the bar and hide in the streets or the alleys. He was relieved because he wasn’t at risk of losing those precious items on top of everything else he’d done wrong today. 

_Don’t focus on that,_ he chanted to himself, _just keep breathing._ And that’s what he did. Once he finished changing and rejoined the upstairs crew, he focused on breathing. Focused on the situation at hand and helped with the preparations. Focused on the traps and what they needed him to do for tonight. Focused on what was _important_ , instead of dwelling on his mistakes. In the back of his mind he knew Tony and the Devilside would find him, but he also knew that he couldn’t rely on them in this solitary moment. Last time he was in danger and at the mercy of others he was able to forewarn neighborhood residents and send word of his location through the Five Families. He didn’t have that luxury this time. More importantly, this wasn’t the doing of idiotic out of towners who got greedy and who had a beef with the best marksman Peter had ever met. This was Peter’s doing. Peter barged in on something he shouldn’t have, and now he had to deal with the blow back of his mistake. 

He could do this. He wasn’t the scared little boy who was plucked out of a boy’s home by three terrifying men anymore. As much as they joked about it, Peter wasn’t a little lamb anymore. Months ago he promised Bucky he would try to be more of a wolf. To be strong like Bucky, Steve, Tony, and Harley. This was his chance to prove how far he’d come. His chance to prove this, not just to them, but to himself. This night was going to be tough. He was never going to be fully prepared for what was to come, but he was going to face it.

He was Peter Stark, and Starks didn’t run from danger. They faced it head on. He really wished he’d realized that earlier before literally running into this mess, but there was no time to focus on it anymore. The light was almost gone from the sky, the streets were dark as the gaslights were slowly turning on. Whatever was coming would be arriving soon. Peter was just happy to have people to help him face it, even if they weren’t the people he would have chosen. He was lucky to have come across them. Extremely lucky. He hoped and prayed they would all survive this night. 

“Hey kid,” Foggy suddenly spoke from his perch near the middle of the railing. Jessica was ready and set just around the top of the stairs. Karen crouched next to Peter, checking her ammo clips fidgeting wildly. 

“Yeah?”

“You doing alright?”

Peter shrugged. “Nervous.”

“Good.” Foggy nodded, seemingly relieved. “You _are_ a smart kid.”

“Because I’m scared?”

“You should be scared, because we’re all scared. Fear’s important, keeps us alive in the worst situations. It tells us to run, to hide, to avoid a conversation, to take a different path. It’s part of survival, fear.” He stopped, taking a deep breath, before continuing, “But it’s also like alcohol. Too much of it can do bad stuff to you, keep you from making the right decision. Don’t let it take you over. Know when to listen to it because it could save your life, but also know when to push it back because it could just as easily prevent you from living your life. Okay?”

Peter nodded. “Got it.” Something was slightly different about Foggy. Peter wondered if it was because Foggy was showing something more than just the stressed lawyer Peter equated him with. “Are you telling me this because _I_ need to hear it, or because _you_ need to hear it?”

Foggy stared at Peter, perplexed and amazed. “Two things. One, you _are_ too smart for your own good. Two, both. The answer is both.” 

Peter felt ashamed at how much that statement put him at ease. “Foggy.”

The man looked at him in confusion. Fear. Peter took a breath, “If I, a sheltered kid who flinches at every loud sound imaginable, can get through this then so can you.” Peter shifted from his sitting position to a crouch. “We’re going to get through this. We’re not alone here.”

Foggy nodded. “I know. It’s just . . . this never gets easier.”

“Well maybe it’s time to start changing things around here?” Peter suggested. “Figure out who’s responsible and send them on their way?”

“Fisk’s followers are responsible, and there’s too many of them to count. Everyone else just tags along,” Jessica cut in from her spot at the stairway. “Besides, how would you go about finding them and kicking them out of Hell’s Kitchen?” 

Peter bit his lip. He wasn’t supposed to think about stuff like this. A question like that would be better aimed towards Bucky or Harley, anyone on the Devilside of the business. Jessica asked him, though, and she waited as if she expected an answer. And how was what he wanted to say different than a corporate takeover, the way Phil and Pepper had explained the Georgia plant acquisition? Maybe if he just thought about it like cleaning out the mess of GA Guns, Inc., how they sorted through what to do, how Phil framed it for the investors, presented it as an opportunity instead of a takeover... Peter took a breath and went with his gut. 

“Well, based on what I’ve seen and heard, I wouldn’t be able to. If Mr. Stark hasn’t been able to claim Hell’s Kitchen, then none of _us_ could.” Peter paused, wondering where he was going with this. “What we could do is provide manpower.”

All sets of eyes met Peter’s, confusion and surprise coloring their gazes. Peter flinched at their intensity, raising his hands in a nonthreatening manner to appease them. “Well, I don’t know if I could, but since you’re going out of your way to protect me, maybe I can convince him to bring in some help.”

“And who would this _help_ be helping?” Jessica cut in.

Peter pressed his lips together, cocking his head slightly, “Well, you guys, of course.”

Her eyebrows went into her hair. “You want to give us manpower?”

Peter nodded. “Hell’s Kitchen, or how you describe it, anyway, seems like a place that only accepts you if you were born in it. Either you’re a local or an outsider. Mr. Stark, the single most powerful man I know, owns all of New York except for here. Why? Why is this the one place he can’t get, even with all of his power and wealth? What is it about Hell’s Kitchen that continues to elude his grasp? He’s buying up properties but the people don’t care. They continue to go about their lives as they please and won’t be pushed around by an outsider. That’s what Mr. Stark is, that’s what I am. I don’t know specifically what Mr. Stark and the rest have done to deserve the hatred. I don’t want to know, and I don’t need to know, but it all harkens back to the root of the issue. We’re outsiders, and outsiders will never be accepted here, but one of you can.”

Peter steadied himself before continuing, dropping the baited hook exactly like he remembered Pepper offering at the merger meeting. “The Starks will never own or run Hell’s Kitchen, but maybe we can help you guys do it?”

Jessica looked like Peter just slapped her. Foggy looked both afraid and amazed. Karen looked suspicious and hopeful at the same time. Peter hunched in on himself. “I-I mean if you don’t want that then-then it’s fine. It was just-just an idea.”

“Could you do that?” Karen spoke up, shifting closer to Peter. He looked up with wide eyes as she placed a hand on his shoulder. “Could you convince him?”

He shrugged, stiff and jerky. “I could- I don’t know- I could _try_?” Tony had said, had explained, that he didn’t have to own the building to own the _man_ who owned the building, and he’d also said, “God, what I wouldn’t give for a line into that neighborhood.” If Peter could do this, could get him a line, if he could help both sides- well. Maybe this nightmare could be worth something, then. Not just, not just one more mistake, one more thing he’s gotten wrong. Something useful. Something- something _Stark_. Always turning iron into gold, that’s what Tony said. Starks always turn iron into gold, that’s how lesser people know they’re a Stark. Well. If Peter could do this, then he could go home, _with his gold_ , and show Tony how he turned this terrible situation into something worthwhile. Iron into gold. “Yeah, I can do it.”

The three looked at one another, Foggy leaned closer through the railing, “Matt, you hearing this?”

“Yeah,” Matt’s calm voice wafted up to them, “Frank’s going to think it over, but not right now. People are starting to gather, making plans on what they’re going to do. They’ll make their way over in a few minutes if they don’t drink first.”

Peter’s eyes popped wide. “What happens if they drink first?”

There was a pause, “Fire.” 

Karen sighed, “Let’s grab the buckets.”

“There’s already a few up there,” Frank called up, “filled them up when we got back.”

Peter was frozen. Fire? Could that really happen? Would they really set this place on fire? He stared wide eyed at Karen. She sighed, “Welcome to Hell’s Kitchen, kid,” before shifting back into her original spot, Walther PPK in one hand and a glass bottle in the other. “Get behind me Peter, and stay out of sight. Be ready to run.”

And that was it. Jessica, Foggy, and Karen all wore tense and focused expressions, taking defensive stances, rigid and immovable. Peter did as he was told. Quickly moving to sit behind Karen, he curled himself into a ball as he tried so hard to focus on breathing. He could do this. He could get through this night. He could get through his punishment when he finally made it home tomorrow. He could. He could do anything. He was Peter Stark, and he was going to make his family proud. 

The first noise was not what he expected. 

He expected gunfire. Smashing glass. Cruel laughter. Something that would better fit the night as his _Defenders_ consistently described. What actually happened didn’t add up whatsoever. 

A knock at the door.

“Who the fuck is knocking?” Jessica growled, refusing to move an inch. 

“It’s the Turk,” Foggy answered, shaking his head. “Probably sent over to scope the place.”

“Well, they’re definitely going to know we have him now.” Jessica adjusted her grip on the poker. “Peter, if you don’t like loud noises, you’re going to want to cover your ears.”

Peter did so, body shaking wildly as he did. He closed his eyes, and imagined home. He thought about Harley, his wicked tongue and restless disposition. He thought about Bucky, his stern and protective nature, his fiery temper. He thought about Steve, his need to chase and catch Peter, and the sweet kisses that make Peter melt. He thought about Pepper, her kind voice and warm, motherly hugs. He thought about Tony, and almost started crying.

He wanted to think of Tony. His Tony. The real Tony. Not the Butcher. Not the angry gaze fueled with shock and fury. Not the ferocious growl he used when he called after Peter’s fleeing form. He wanted to think of their first night together after dancing in Harlem with ‘Tasha and convincing Steve to take his medicine. He wanted to think about his birthday night and how full and complete he felt when Tony entered and buried himself inside of Peter. He wanted to think of Tony’s face, of how it changed and shifted as he found pleasure within Peter, how pleased he was when Peter found pleasure with him. That’s what he wanted to think about, but all he could see were those angry eyes and his livid expression.

If for no other reason, Peter wanted to survive just to see Tony’s eyes shine with pride, with happiness, with pleasure. Just once. Just one more time. If that was all he could get then he’d be happy. Just one more time he wanted to see it. Just one more.

“Hello!” a shout came from downstairs. “Paying customer!” 

Peter flinched. This was a diversion. He could feel it. The fight was about to start.

And it began a few moments later. 

At first the bar was filled with empty, deafening silence. Then came the first _pop_ , quickly followed by the sound of shattering glass. Peter shut his eyes tighter, pressing harder against his ears to tune out the sudden onslaught occuring downstairs. With every clash, every _pop_ , every shatter that sounded, Peter flinched. Flinched like he was the one being shot. Like the bullets were hitting him instead of the walls of the floor downstairs. He thought about the range, about shooting targets with Clint easing him through the process and adjusting his stance. Thought about how Clint could identify the type of gun a man used just by the sound. Could Peter? Could he identify it? _Should_ he identify it? Or would that just make this all worse?

Though muffled, Peter could tell it was just one gun that was shooting. Fast paced, never ceasing, and then a slight jam towards the end. Machine gun. Possibly the Stark 1917. Peter played around with it once or twice in the workshop, but Clint detested it- said it wasn’t a gun that could teach Peter anything about precision or aim or good stance. Peter remembered how it jammed towards the end when they’d tested it out one morning. 

He remembered little about the morning- Clint had been right and the submachine gun boring to shoot after the first loud kickback and splatter on the target. He’d noticed that the Stark 1917 had a weird effect where the longer he held down the trigger, the aim would get worse, creating a splaying pattern instead of keeping straight and true to the target. He’d thought at the time it might be a simple fix of just tweaking a certain mechanism here or there, but that didn’t explain the splaying pattern through the prolonged trigger hold. Faulty manufacturing? Faulty craftsmanship in mass production? Peter was sure it had nothing to do with Tony’s design itself. The man was a savant when it came to tinkering and crafting weapons. 

The shooting stopped. Peter’s pulse pounded in his ears. Reloading? Surveying damage? Peter started counting. He reached 20. No sound. He reached 45. No sound. When he got to 67, there was still no sound. Odd. He reached 100. No sound. Even his first reload hadn’t taken more than a minute, had it? Then he made it 113, and there were shuffles. Footsteps. Breaking glass. Someone was coming in? More than one someone based on the multitude of crushing sounds. _Deep breaths,_ Peter chanted inwardly, _deep breaths_. 

“You picked the wrong bar, boys,” came the gruff growl of Frank, and then a mighty roar followed by booms, more shattering glass, and screams of pain. Peter focused on the booms. Definitely a shotgun. With the singular howl of rage and fury, Peter surmised Frank was the one using it. Nothing was off about the sound, and based on the preceding yelps and echoing, meaty thuds following each of his shots, his shooting was practiced and precise. Frank knew what he was doing. Peter idly wondered if maybe this was the reason he was called “The Punisher?” Then again, he really didn’t want to know. 

There were approximately six shots between each reload time, during which there were only moans and curses from the downstairs area before Frank resumed his shooting. Amateurs. A Stark 1917 took almost no time to load. Then again, Frank was using a shotgun and had proven to be quite precise with it. Maybe they got caught in the crossfire and were down for the count, or maybe they ran off when they saw him firing?

Silence again, another reload time. No sounds, no shuffles, just Peter’s pounding pulse and quick panting breath. Peter thought about the shotgun. He’d only fired one once because the kickback was terrible, and unlike the 1917, Clint hadn’t allowed him to use a brace. Even with Clint standing right there, he hadn’t been prepared for it, and it almost threw his shoulder out. Crouched low in the upstairs of the bar, he vaguely noticed a second _chink_ in the discharge of the Stark 1917 during the nest round of shooting. That was _interesting_ , the little _chink_ , and it gave him something else to focus on. He pondered the multitude of possibilities as the crunching sounds from the broken glass started up again. 

“Grab your rifle, they’re making cocktails.” Matt’s smooth voice joined the fray, and the crushing glass escalated momentarily. Shuffling sounds from below. Peter wondered what kind of rifle it would be. Clint hadn’t wanted him to waste too much time on rifles, and so he didn’t know them as well. Maybe he could convince Clint to let him practice with rifles more regularly once he was back home? That was, if Tony and Steve and everyone else allowed him around anything that could be potentially dangerous _ever again_? 

Peter frowned. Steve was going to lock him in his room and never let him out ever again. Not just house arrest, but room arrest, never getting to do anything ever again. Not even Harley would be able to save him from Steve’s overprotective wrath. And honestly, Peter couldn’t wait to face that. Anything other than waiting for people to come kill him- or _worse_. 

Well, except for Bucky’s rage. That he could do without. Same with the Butcher’s. Especially the Butcher’s. Shakes started overtaking Peter once more. He took a deep breath and carefully uncovered his ears, hands only inches away in case he needed to cover them back up quickly. 

Frank was grunting unintelligible sounds. Humming? Matt was silent as a ghost. Karen next to him was panting deep and fast, just like him. Foggy was muttering to himself. Based on the whimpering tone, Peter surmised that he was pleading. Praying. Praying to live throughout the night. Peter wanted to do the same, but if he did he’d wind up in tears and lose all the focus he’d been able to maintain thus far. Jessica was mumbling something too. “C’mon . . . c’mon . . . c’mon you bastards . . . c’mon,” over and over again. He couldn’t determine whether she sounded eager, or terrified. Both?

There was a strange sound. Frank was loading a bullet. Peter heard him breathe deeply and exhaled slowly. “One batch,” he spoke softly, “two batch,” slight shift, more crinkling of glass, “Penny and Dime.” Frank was going to shoot! Peter covered his ears.

An explosion of sound filled the bar, a scream bellowed outside followed by more screams. _Pain. No, not just pain- anguish._ Peter pressed his ears harder, thinking about what possible cartridge Frank could have used. The material it was made of. Copper? Titanium? Lead? Silver? He hoped it was silver. Silver bullets stop monsters from hurting people. Maybe it would stop the people from coming to hurt him? Howls of rage began outside, person after person joining in.

“Get ready!” Frank shouted, a clattering sound preceding his call. “They’re swarming!”

“Karen!” Matt shouted. “Watch for the signal!”

“Don’t get killed!” Foggy yelled. “We don’t have the money for caskets!”

“Foggy! Shut up!” Karen chastised. “I’m watching Matt!”

“I’m going to die surrounded by a bunch of selfless idiots. Story of my life,” Jessica spoke clearly from her perch. “Fuck it. Let’s kill some townies and save a rich kid.”

They weren’t going to die, right? They were going to make it through this, right? _Please let them make it all through this. Please?_ He was a good kid, a good angel, or at least he tried to be. Was this his punishment for failing to do so? Was he being punished for running away in fear? No, it couldn’t be, right? He hoped he was right. 

Then the crowd outside came in. 

It was incredibly hard to discern everything that was happening, particularly since his eyes were shut tight and his hands were essentially squishing his face with how hard he was pressing on his ears. He heard yelps of surprise, grunts of exertion, screams of pain. He heard Karen grunt next to him and screech in fear. Heard stray bullets flying throughout the bar. Heard them ping and whiz passed him. Heard more glass break, heard Foggy cheer on Frank and Matt, heard Jessica yell at him to shut up. So many things happening at once. 

_Just keep breathing. Just keep breathing._

He didn’t know how long it had been going on. He didn’t bother to count this time. The loud noises kept disrupting him to the point where he had to start over. It could have been five minutes, ten minutes, maybe even twenty. All he knew was that there was nothing he could do. They didn’t want him to fight, and he didn’t want to. They wanted him to stay out of sight, but he didn’t want to do that either. He wanted to go home but it wasn’t safe. He wanted to run for the hills but he couldn’t for the same reason. So many things happening all at once and he didn’t know if he could handle it. He couldn’t just focus on breathing because it wasn’t doing anything except scaring him more. What could he do? 

Suddenly, there was a rough shove to his shoulder, and Peter opened his eyes. 

“Peter, help me!” Karen shouted into his face, pointing to the back of bottles. “Pull that bag over and start throwing bottles. Don’t stand up and don’t look over the barricade, just grab a bottle and throw it into the open area!”

Peter could do _that_. With a sigh of relief, he did as he was told. With a wild flame of adrenaline flowing through his veins, Peter started throwing. He tuned out the squeals that preceded his throws. It must have been Frank. He was a scary bear of a man, surely those squeals came from him, right? Peter threw bottle after bottle, elated to be doing something worthwhile. Karen kept peeking over the railing, gun in hand and ready to shoot without actually pulling the trigger. Jessica was pointing and calling out maneuvers or something of that nature, crouching behind the railing with the poker still in hand. Foggy was huddled close to Jessica, expression full of worry as he cheered them all on. 

“Jessica! They’re coming to you!” Matt called from below. 

Karen whipped around to face Foggy. “Get ready!”

Peter pulled the bag of bottles further away from the stairwell, shifting closer to Karen to avoid looking over at Jessica and Foggy. If he looked, he’d see something he wasn’t supposed to. Something he couldn’t unsee. He couldn’t let that happen, not on top of everything else he’d done wrong today. Once he was safely out of sight of Jessica and Foggy, Peter resumed throwing the bottles. 

He didn’t know how long it took- all he knew was his shoulder was positively straining when he was suddenly down to the last bottle. He breathed deeply, glancing around to see if maybe a few had slipped out when he wasn’t paying attention. Nothing. He looked behind him. Same result. He exhaled sharply, looking up to Karen. “Karen, I’m out!”

Before she could respond, before she could even turn around, Peter smelled something. He sniffed the air, eyes popping wide. Burning. Something was burning. He looked to the area above the railing. _Smoke. Oh, God._ The bar was on fire!

“Karen!” Frank shouted, “Get the water!”

Peter jumped to his feet, rushing towards the closet next to the bedroom where Frank placed the buckets he had filled with water. Together they grabbed the nearest one and carried it over to the railing. “Ready?” Karen checked with Peter who nodded urgently. “Okay! One! Two!” and then they poured. Karen looked over the railing, but Peter did not. He didn’t need to know what else was down there. What he needed to know was where to pour the bucket and that was it. 

Over and over they repeated the process in the span of minutes, but the smoke was only getting worse, making Peter start to cough and trip over his feet, nearly spilling the water as he did. Karen wasn’t much better off. She wasn’t tripping over herself, but she was having just as hard a time of breathing as he. 

“Are we putting out the flames?” he yelled to her, desperately seeking a positive answer. 

With a shake of her head, she delivered the truth. “Not really, wherever we put out they light three more.”

“What should we do?!” Peter pleaded, helping her carry the next bucket towards the railing. 

“I don’t know,” she admitted, “just keep going until Frank says otherwise?”

“But what if Frank gets knocked out and _can’t_ tell us otherwise? I know he’s strong and scary, but he’s still a man-”

“He’s not called the Punisher for nothing, Peter. The only way he’ll get knocked out is by killing him first. Besides, Matt’s watching his back. If it gets too out of hand they’ll send us running, okay? Trust us,” Karen defended in between coughs. 

Peter thought about what Harley might say to that. It’d be loaded with curses and something along the lines of “I’m not waiting on some guy’s orders when I could get burned alive at any second.” Peter shook his head and did as he was told. He wasn’t Harley, but he really wished Harley were here right now. 

Peter noticed there weren’t that many buckets left, and the smoke was only getting worse. He coughed into his arm, trying desperately to rub the tears from his eyes and keep going. Karen was in a similar state, and that had Peter panicking. Distraught and scared, Karen’s gaze flicked around the upstairs area, searching for Jessica and Foggy? Had to be. Peter realized he hadn’t heard them in a bit-

“Karen!” Jessica’s voice yelled. “We’re overrun!” Then the angry, coughing woman appeared carrying a flailing Foggy as she did. “The place is up in flames! Grab the kid and let’s go!”

“But Frank-”

“Matt sent the signal! Frank got pulled out by Fisk’s men and now they’re rumbling outside! We have to move! Now!”

Peter gasped at that. ‘What about Matt?”

“He followed him out!” Jessica responded, heaving the coughing Foggy towards the window. “Now let’s do the same! Hurry up!”

Karen grabbed Peter’s hand and together they ran towards the window. Shouts and screams escalated behind them. Peter tuned them out. It was just noise. All of it was noise. Jessica dumped Foggy onto the floor, forcing the window open and looking at Karen. “You two first. Get ready to catch Foggy once you’re down there!”

They moved quickly and surprisingly efficiently given they were both coughing their heads off, struggling to hold onto the rope as they each descended to the ground. Karen jumped gracefully while Peter stumbled and almost fell onto his butt. Then they both readied themselves to catch Foggy. Peter expected Jessica to shove him through the opening and hope for the best. She seemed the type of person to do something like that. Instead, Foggy was able to climb through and partially climb down until his muscles gave out around halfway. Both Karen and Peter reached out to catch him.

Peter took most of the weight and landed harshly to the ground as he did. He fell awkwardly, a sharp pain emanating in his right wrist as he scratched the back of his exposed hand. Peter let out a yelp of pain, but otherwise remained silent. 

“Foggy!” Karen pulled the coughing man off of Peter. “Foggy are you okay?”

“Yeah,” Foggy said in a voice that was strained, offering up a tense smile, “got hit in the throat. Stunned me a bit. I’ll be fine.”

“What happened to Frank and Matt?” Peter asked, cradling his wrist against his chest.

“I’m not sure. One minute they were doing fine, kicking ass and taking names, but more and more kept coming and Frank couldn’t get to his guns and then-”

“We got overrun,” Jessica finished, jumping down next to them and pointing to Karen. “Foggy and I are going to stay and run interference in case anyone saw us escape. You two,” she gestured to Peter, throwing him her hat, “get to Claire’s. We’ll meet up with you when we can. Make sure to use the back door! She’ll have the front barricaded!” 

Karen nodded, grabbing Peter by his upper arm and pulling him along. “Put the hat on and stick with me!”

The trek to Claire’s place was intense, destructive, and absolutely terrifying. Karen pulled him along, cursing and yelping in fear. Peter kept his eyes to the ground, tuning out all the noises as they moved in urgent tandem. He wanted to close his eyes and curl back into a ball, focus on weapon sounds and determine faulty manufacturing again. He wanted to throw glass bottles at people he’ll never see or meet. He wanted to play the bass line on the piano again while Matt played the complicated melody. Most of all, he just wanted to go home. Anything else instead of running blind out in the open where anyone could see him, take him, and do awful things to him.

 _I wish Harley was here,_ he thought wistfully. 

Karen screamed, knocking Peter backwards and sending them both to the ground. He yelped as his wrist impacted the surface, skinning his hands once more. “Oh, God!” Karen shouted, pushing Peter further away. Peter couldn’t stop himself. 

He looked up and his jaw dropped. 

“Ben?!”

In his big, masculine glory, Ben Grimm of the Fantastic stood tall and full of fury. He had a shotgun pointed at Karen, too dark to tell the make and model, and stared down at Peter with a confused expression. He cocked his head, studying Peter’s fallen form. 

“Holy shit, kid? Is that you, Peter?”

Peter nodded. “Please don’t shoot her! She’s helping me!”

Ben all but dropped the gun, allowing his hand to fall to his side as he rushed towards Peter. “Jesus Christ! What the hell are you doing here?!” He picked him up by the back of his borrowed, shabby jacket. “And where are your clothes?!”

Peter pointed to the bar far behind them in the distance. The escalating flames made it easy to pinpoint. “I changed out of them so it’d be easier to hide.”

“Hide from who?! Your family?!” Ben shook him fiercely, sending Peter’s head flailing, “Do you have any idea how scared they are? How much blood you’ve spilled?”

“I’m not hiding from them!” Peter shouted, grabbing Ben’s big, beefy wrist, “I’m hiding from _them!_ ” He pointed abruptly behind Ben, who turned to see what he was pointing at. 

At the end of the alley where Peter, Karen, and Ben were standing, a hoard of people carrying guns and torches came rushing towards them. Howling and screaming victoriously. Karen pushed the men in the other direction. “C’mon! Hurry!”

Ben dragged Peter along as Karen raced slightly ahead of them, showing them where to go. Peter struggled to keep up, coughing and tripping over his feet as he did. Ben shot twice at the incoming horde, buying them just a little bit of time as they raced from alley to alley. Street to street. Building to building.

“What the Hell were you thinking kid? Coming to Hell’s Kitchen of all places?” Ben panted, shaking Peter as they continued their escape.

“I wasn’t trying to come here,” Peter coughed, voice strangled by smoke and tears, “I was just trying to get away!”

“Away from what?!”

“The Butcher,” Peter sobbed. “I didn’t-didn’t mean to! I just wanted to show Tony the gun I was working on, and-and I walked in on him-” he almost collapsed, but Ben held on tight.

“Wait, what?” Ben stopped, “Hey, girl! Hold on!” he called to Karen. Both of them stopped. Ben grabbed Peter’s chin. “You saw the Butcher working on someone?”

Peter couldn’t look at Ben. “I didn’t mean to,” he sobbed, knees giving out.

“Oh Hell.” Ben wrapped an arm around Peter’s back, helping him stay upright. “Can’t be mad at you now. Don’t worry, the mess’ll get fixed up in no time. Let’s just get you somewhere safe. Okay? You listening, kid?”

“There’s no time for this! We’re almost there!” Karen pleaded with the pair. 

Peter took a deep breath. “Let’s go,” he breathed, and raced after Karen, somehow escaping Ben’s grip. Ben was huge, but Peter was faster. As soon as Peter was out of arm’s reach, Ben cursed and gnashed his teeth as he tried to keep up with Karen and Peter. 

Finally, a few streets and alleys later, Karen stopped and kneeled next to a few trash cans. “Shit,” she cursed. 

“What’s going on?” Peter whispered in her ear. 

“Thanks to you two, those goons beat us here.” She nodded to a group of huddled men standing near what looked to be an abandoned house. 

Peter gazed at the group. Something seemed familiar about them. Their clothes were covered with soot and dark stains, but they were fancy. Upscale. Particularly the shortest of the bunch. He couldn’t see their faces but he saw their guns. Stark weaponry, special issue. Shined yet well used. Peter straightened up. One of the men had long dark hair tied back in a bun. Another was blond and slight and couldn’t seem to stop moving. The last, the shortest of the bunch, had his hair slicked back and seemed just as restless as the blonde standing next to him. Like they fed off each other’s discomposure. A new figure emerged. No not one. Two figures emerged. 

Frank and Matt. 

They were worn out, skin blackened with soot and covered with something Peter didn’t want to identify. They talked to the group of men, pointing to the abandoned house where Karen was taking them too. Why would they be doing that? Why would they-

“Oh, thank God,” Karen murmured. “They’re okay, but who are they talking to?”

Peter saw Matt turn his head towards them as Karen spoke, then his whole body shifted when Ben huffed away behind Peter. “Good job, Johnny.”

Peter’s mouth dropped open. He couldn’t believe it. Matt gestured to the group of men, and sure enough the restless blonde was Johnny. Eyes scanning the area frantically just as-

“Oh my God,” Peter murmured. Wishes do come true.

The other two men turned towards Peter and Karen in the alley. Harley’s wide, frantic eyes searched wildly to where Matt was pointing while Bucky’s angry gaze searched calmly, gun ready to fire should trouble come at them. Peter began sobbing. He knew it. He _knew_ they would find him. 

But where was Tony? Where was Steve? Why was it only them?

Matt waved them over. “Karen! C’mon! We need to get everyone inside! Now!”

Karen stood from her spot and Peter stood with her. If it wasn’t for Ben abruptly grabbing his shoulder, Peter would have raced towards them without a second thought. “Not getting away from me until Bucky gets his hands on you. Understand?”

Peter nodded, too overcome with relief and guilt to fight back. Then they were moving. Karen emerged into the dim lamplight of the street and rushed over to Matt and Frank. Ben emerged just ahead of Peter, waving to Johnny who sighed in obvious relief. Then Peter emerged in the lamplight.

“Angel!” Harley shouted, holstering his gun as he raced towards Peter, eyes wild and body flailing like it was failing to catch up to the speed of his relief. Bucky was right behind him, expression fierce and enraged. Only someone who had been paying attention to Bucky for as long as Peter had been could see the utter relief in those cold eyes. 

Ben released him, and then he was in their arms- Harley in front of him and Bucky behind him, both arms holding him tightly. So tightly. Squeezing and trapping him in their embrace. He melted at the feel of it. He wrapped his arms tightly around Harley, face tucked into the side of Harley’s neck. Blubbering and sobbing, Peter repeated, “I’m sorry, I’m so sorry, I didn’t mean to,” until Harley and Bucky shushed him. 

“You’re such a dummy,” Harley laughed, kissing Peter’s shoulder, “you think we’re going to be mad at you for running from the Butcher? It’s probably one of the smartest things you’ve ever done.”

“Running into Hell’s Kitchen without backup ain’t,” Bucky growled, “but now’s not the time, Cat. We need to get him inside.”

And with that, Bucky pulled Peter from Harley’s grasp and swept him up into his own arms. He carried Peter deep into the night towards the abandoned house with Harley following close behind. Harley, who placed a calming hand on Peter’s shoulder while he followed. Together, the three Starks found safety and comfort in one another, and ventured onward to the seemingly abandoned house. 

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> The song for this story can be found here: https://youtu.be/_kIpr6nSvjI
> 
> My apologies for not having it in the end notes of the first chapter!


	3. A Wager

The next hour or so consisted of Peter getting fussed over by not only Bucky and Harley, but Johnny and Ben, too. Matt and Frank made themselves scarce the moment they stepped inside the house. Claire, the owner, allowed them in after a brief and tense conversation with Matt. It turned out she was a nurse. She flitted about the place, handing out rags and directing the men towards the water supply to clean themselves up while she tended to Matt, Frank, Foggy, and even Jessica’s wounds. Peter didn’t know she had gotten hurt during the fight. There wasn’t much to be done about the coughing except to endure, so everyone who had been caught in the bar coughed away. 

Bucky was twitching with anger, but Peter could see it was more out of worry than anything else. Harley was shaking, but only Peter seemed to notice it. Maybe Matt, with his hearing? Once they got Peter safe inside the house, and everything began settling, the pair separated Peter from the rest and took care of him. Not in the way they normally would, but in the way Claire was currently taking care of Frank. 

Bucky tended to Peter’s wrist, wrapping it up tight so Peter didn’t move it as much, and then assessed the rest of Peter. Peeling back the ruined jacket and tossing it away on a nearby table, he took some ointment that Claire was gracious enough to lend him, and carefully spread it on Peter’s scraped hands. He was careful yet precise with the spread, as gentle as he was capable of with his firm, angry grasp. Peter could see the softness, the worry in Bucky’s care, but he could also see how the roughness might look to outside eyes, and it wasn’t very promising. Especially with the dirty, suspicious looks Bucky kept shooting Frank, and surprisingly, Matt. Peter wondered what could have happened in the short amount of time they spent together to cause the intensity of those looks. 

Harley had reluctantly left the two alone while Bucky cared for Peter. He grabbed a rag and wet it down, waiting with bated breath for the older man to finish with Peter. Peter smirked at his brother, noting that even now Harley couldn’t stand still to save his life. The moment Bucky was done, Harley practically raced over with a relieved smile, and wiped Peter’s face clean, keeping a shaky hand on him at all times. He, too, kept glancing at Frank and Matt, blatantly suspicious of the two. Peter furrowed his brow, confused. 

“Harley?” Peter asked, keeping his tone soft and pliant.

“Yeah, Angel?” 

“Why do you both keep glaring at them?” Peter whispered, gesturing to Matt and Frank.

Harley shook his head, brushing a thumb along Peter’s cheek as he wiped away the last bit of dirt from Peter’s face. “Don’t you worry about that. Just focus on you, okay? Stay quiet and good, and let us get you home. Alright?”

Peter sighed, but nodded all the same. Home sounded great. Terrifying, but great. 

Ben and Johnny kept an eye on the windows while staying near Peter. Johnny moved to sit next to Peter on the table shortly after Harley did. Whenever Bucky had to go more than a few feet from Peter, Ben would sidle up and place a firm hand on Peter’s shoulder until Bucky came back. Harley grimaced at Ben everytime he touched Peter and would then pull him into a hug and whisper, “I got you, Angel,” each time. 

It made Peter feel amazing, and terrified too. Bucky and Ben were really struggling to hold back how truly angry they were. The only reason they weren’t letting loose that he could think of was that they were surrounded by outsiders. Bucky kept muttering, “When we get home,” before shaking his head and stopping his comment. 

Peter hung his head in shame, thinking, _If Bucky is like this, Steve is going to be so much worse._ Peter idly wondered if he’d ever be alone in a room ever again. What was Bucky going to do when they were home? Would Harley help him or convince him to go easy on Peter? What was Steve going to do? What was Tony going to do? He flinched at the possibilities, and Harley held him tighter against his side as a result. “It’s okay, Angel. I won’t let the Wolf bite you. That’s my job.” 

Peter shivered, as Harley nonchalantly kissed Peter’s shoulder when no one was looking their way. 

Peter couldn’t sleep. Gunshots and screams continued outside the house. Whoops and cheers, cries of pain, people running up and down the street shooting and waving gaslights, setting places aflame. No one came to the house, though. As far as Peter could hear- Bucky wouldn’t let him look at the slight slivers through the window curtains- no one even came close to the house. Peter hummed at that.

“Claire’s the only thing close to a doctor in this part of town,” Matt rasped, somehow reading Peter’s mind. He was sitting over at a table near the window with Frank, and shifted in his seat to address Peter. “It's why they tend to avoid it, but not completely. If they even thought you might be here, they would have torn it down or burnt it to cinders looking for you, just like they did with the bar. You understand?”

“Yes,” Peter responded just as Harley shouted, “Don’t you fucking talk to him like that!”

“It’s okay, Harley.” Peter patted Harley’s upper arm. “He’s just telling me true is all.”

“Well, he needs to stop. He’s saying it to _scare_ you, not tell it _true_ ,” Harley shot back, glaring at Matt as he did. 

“Barnes,” Frank growled without taking his eyes off the street, “get a handle on that devil of yours before he gets us all killed.” 

“Get a handle on yours and I will,” Bucky growled back from behind Peter, squeezing his shoulder gently. “He’s the one trying to scare Angel for no reason.”

“Keep your dicks in your pants and shut up,” Jessica growled from the table. “Fuck prohibition. I need whiskey.”

“Ah, did our resident crossdresser have a rough night on the job?” Johnny snarked, laughing at his own jibe. 

“Nope,” she spat, standing from the table and grabbing hold of the poker, “just the average night dealing with arrogant yahoos who have the nerve to think they can waltz right in and take advantage of our kindness. Something I have no problem rectifying by shoving this poker up your-”

“Okay!” Ben stepped in, blocking Jessica’s path with a thick, meaty hand. “No need for that, Ms. Jones. Johnny here knows better than to mess with you, or at least he should.” He stopped, glancing back at Johnny who sheepishly raised his hands in surrender, grimacing all the while. “Sorry for the offense. I’ll set it right once we reach the Fantastic.”

“You do that,” Jessica sneered, but turned away and sat back in her spot. 

“You guys know each other?” Peter asked, earning a warning look from Johnny and Harley. He could feel Bucky’s glare at the back of his head. Felt his hand squeeze his shoulder, this time tighter and more restricting. 

“Unfortunately,” Jessica responded, not paying the men’s reactions any mind, “Richards and his lousy brigade are always losing track of someone they need handled. Sometimes that means a bullet from The Punisher,” she gestured to Frank, “or a trip to the pen, but that’s up to them. All I ever have to do is find them.”

“Must mean you’re the best, right?”

Jessica snorted, “How do you figure that?”

“I’ve never heard of you, even when I was shouting the papers. Means you’re good at your job. You don’t slip up. Unless they’re tied to a bigger name, bigger family like the Starks, people who get noticed are normally the ones who make mistakes. Mistakes that get them noticed and eventually killed.”

Jessica glanced at Peter. “Are you sweet talking me?”

Peter shook his head. “Nope, just stating some facts.”

“Well keep those facts to yourself,” Johnny warned, “crossdresser over there ain’t a team player.”

“Based on what I’ve seen tonight, I’d beg to differ.” Peter shrugged, looking at Jessica. “I think she gets along with a team she trusts and respects, just like any other team player would. And the fact she helped protect me tonight when she could have left me to the hoard to be skinned alive helps prove that.”

“That’s enough of that,” Harley growled, “ain’t no one skinning you alive on my watch. Now stop thinking about that stuff. Just sit there and be quiet.” He leaned in and whispered in Peter’s ear, “Be good, Angel. Be good like I know you are.”

Peter wanted to listen, to be good and quiet like Harley wanted him to be, but he couldn’t. Not after everything tonight. He had to do this, to balance all of these people, draw the Defenders in, show them what a good partner a Stark could be. It was the only way to turn iron into gold. To make up for everything he’d done wrong in the last 24 hours. He leaned away from Harley slightly, gathering his courage before looking him dead in the eyes. “I can’t stay quiet this time, Harley.”

Harley’s eyes flashed with sudden emotion. “Yes, you can,” he hissed angrily. “You’re going to sit there and shut your trap until we get you home.”

“No, Harley.” Peter flinched at the dangerous turn those eyes took, but he held firm, looking back at Jessica in haste. “If you hadn’t helped, if-if you flat out refused, I'm- I'm all alone, here, and- and- and I don't have any- I don't even have a gun. When they came for me, if they w-wanted my head, well. Harley's wrong. Without you, I'd be out there, with them. I owe you, all of you, for that. I don’t know how to thank you-”

“Shut up, kid,” Bucky growled from behind him, squeezing almost painfully at his shoulder, “you better fucking start listening to Harley real quick before you get yourself into another stupid situation. You hear me?”

“Sargeant,” Matt spoke up, a firm set to his mouth, “I suggest you ease up on Peter’s shoulder before you leave a bruise. The Butcher won’t like seeing his toy messed up when he’s not the one responsible. At least, that’s what the Black Widow used to tell me, although maybe thing’s’ve changed since she signed on as his secondary queen.”

The room went silent. “You know Tasha?” Peter asked, eyes wide.

Matt smirked, “You’re talking to the only person who can keep up with her on the dance floor and leave her begging for more. Don’t believe me? Ask her about Daredevil sometime. She’ll tell you.” Matt laughed, shaking his head slightly. “You’re partially right by the way, about what you said. None of us are in charge here. We’re united or we’re not. Frank certainly would have been pissed, but if Jessica or anyone else was truly against defending you tonight, Frank wouldn’t have given you the option to stay. He would have told you to leave right then and there. We wouldn’t, however, hold you back just to hand you over ourselves. We’re not angels like you, but we’re also not devils like your friends here, either.” Bucky and Harley exchanged similar sneering glances at Matt's label, but neither one denied it.

“You’re what you need to be to survive,” Peter concluded in a small voice.

Matt nodded. “Survival’s all that matters, these days. If you keep losing your head and running blind with fear, you’re going to have a hard go of trying to keep your head above water. Don’t let that happen- life’s not worth living that way.”

“Okay,” Peter conceded, “I’ll try not to.”

“Besides,” Matt smirked, “what kind of liaison would you be for us if you keep losing your head and not thinking straight?”

Peter perked up at that, but Harley interjected, “Liaison? What are you talking about?”

Peter ignored him to ask Matt, “Do you… want that?”

Matt shrugged. “To a point. Frank has some stipulations and such that need to be addressed first. One such stipulation we all just so happen to be in agreement with is this: If we’re going to clear out Fisks' men, serve as a line into Hell’s Kitchen, then it’s _your_ line Peter. Not the Wolf’s, not the Widow’s, or the Hellcat’s, and certainly not the Butcher’s. The line leads back to _you_. You are the one we trust, and the only one we’ll deal with. Understand? Otherwise this won’t work.”

Peter startled at that. This wasn’t how he had planned it to go. He wanted to give Tony a line into Hell’s Kitchen as a gift, not give the man more reason to worry and be angry with him. Their condition wasn’t something he’d been prepared for, but he’d gone too far now, defending them in front of Bucky and Harley, and the beckoning glint of gold made it all seem worthwhile. The offer was there, both sides amenable. Well, _amenable_ if Peter didn’t count the angry, bristling natures of the Devilside company surrounding him. 

After a long moment, Peter took a breath, nodding vigorously. “Okay, I’ll do my best.”

Frank spoke up suddenly, shifting in his seat slightly to look Peter dead in the eyes. “And we’ll do the same for you.”

Peter took a breath, “Thank you, Frank.”

“Stay good, and you can count on that anytime.” Frank glanced at the men surrounding Peter, glaring at Bucky for a fraction of a second, before adding, “And not their definition of good. You hear me? You know what I’m talking about?”

Peter shivered. “Yeah, I think so.”

Frank nodded. “I’ll give you my stipulations before you leave at sunup. We’ll have a talk then too, explaining how this is going to go. Alright?”

Before Peter had a chance to respond, Harley stood up and pulled Peter with him. “C’mon,” Harley growled, abruptly pulling Peter away from the table and towards the stairs. Panic shot through Peter’s heart as he was dragged through the room. Based on the firm hand on his shoulder, Bucky was coming with them. Not good. Not good at all. 

Jessica stood from her table once more with her poker in hand. Karen rushed to stand in front of the stairs, mouth set in a firm grimace, a gun at her side. Foggy stood, too, with his baseball bat and a fearful look.

“I don’t think so, asshole,” Jessica grated, adjusting her grip on the poker. “Let the kid go before he sees something he shouldn’t.”

“I’m going to talk to my baby brother about some of his actions today, and you ain’t fucking stopping me,” Harley growled. 

“Wait! Hold on! Just wait.” Claire appeared, holding discolored rags in her hands after cleaning up Matt. She moved in to stand next to Karen, a frantic look on her face. “Upstairs is for my patients. I normally keep them down here, but I was forced to move them so they didn’t get hurt by the mob outside. If you want to talk, and I do mean _talk_ ,” she emphasised to Harley with a pointed look, “then you and you alone may do so in the basement. It’s too small and cramped for more than a couple of people. If your friend here would like to stand guard at the door,” she gestured to Bucky, “then that is perfectly fine with me. I don’t want to patch up another kid today, so please just do what you say.”

“Oh don’t worry, nurse,” Harley growled, “if he needs patching up, we’ll be the ones doing it.”

“I’m sorry, but if you’re going to hurt him, then I can’t let you go down there.” Claire insisted, steeling her expression as Karen took a more defensive stance without actually raising her gun. Jessica moved closer, as did Foggy. From the corner of Peter’s eye he saw Matt stand up, clenching his fists. He heard Johnny and Ben shift behind him, no doubt taking defensive stances themselves. Peter’s eyes went wide with the feeling that everything hinged on him, the balance of the mood in the room once again depending on his next words. 

“He’s not going to hurt me,” Peter spoke to Claire softly, capturing her attention. “He just wants to make sure I’m okay. They all do.” He turned to face Matt and Frank, surprised that Frank was no longer facing the window. Frank’s dark gaze settled on Bucky before shifting to meet Peter’s. “You asked me earlier on if they were going to hurt me, and I said no. That’s still true. They’re not going to hurt me. It might seem that way, but really they’re just worried. Worried that I ended up in Hell’s Kitchen of all places- after walking in on something I shouldn’t have witnessed. They just want to keep me safe, just like all of you have done for me tonight.” He paused, taking a deep settling breath before continuing, “You don’t trust them, I know that, and they don’t trust you just the same. Right now, all we need to trust is that no one in here is going to hurt anybody because doing so is a one way ticket out into that,” Peter pointed through the sliver of window, “and I think we can all agree that we’d rather deal what’s in here, than what’s out there.”

He looked around the room, blatantly ignoring the way the heavy weight in his chest choked his voice on his next words, “Please, stand down. I don’t want anyone else getting hurt tonight if I can help it.”

“Problem is,” Frank spoke up, “you’re the one we’re afraid might get hurt.”

“They’d never hurt me,” Peter insisted, boldly reaching up to grab Bucky’s hand- the hand that was squeezing the bejeezus out of his shoulder. It loosened slightly at his touch, and that meant more to him than he could ever explain. “I’m going to be okay, Frank. I promise.”

Frank stared at the group for a while, his cold gaze intense and more than a little intimidating. Peter trembled beneath it, holding onto Bucky’s hand, staring back as bravely as he could. Harley tightened his hold on the upper part of Peter’s arm. He felt Harley sigh in annoyance and attempt to move, but Peter wasn’t having it. He reached and grabbed the bottom of Harley’s shirt, the part that was puffing out slightly over his belt, and pulled him to a stop. He desperately tried to hide the wince as the pain in his wrist pinged, but he kept his eyes on Frank all the same. Well, for the most part. He couldn’t ignore Foggy’s dumbfounded expression, nor Karen’s weary one next Claire’s apprehensive look. Jessica just rolled her eyes, scoffing at the scene and mumbling something that suspiciously sounded like, “Pillow biter,” under her breath. Peter really hoped Harley and Bucky hadn’t caught that. 

Eventually, Frank sighed and turned back to the window, “Go ahead, and let them through.”

Harley moved instantly, pulling Peter away from the group, Bucky following behind dutifully, towards the open basement door next to the staircase. Just as they reached it, there was a firm, “Hey!” and their heads all turned back.

Matt was still standing, pointing at three with a firm grimace. “I’ll be listening. If anything happens I don’t like, Peter can stay while the rest of you can deal with the mob outside. Your choice.”

“It’ll be fine Matt- Mr. Murdock,” Peter assured, catching Bucky’s angry gaze and quickly adding the formality. He just caught Matt’s smirk and slight nod before he was suddenly pushed into a darkened room and forcefully guided down a set of stairs. He didn’t go very far into the space beyond, maybe a step or two, before Bucky stopped him and stomped back up the stairs. Harley held firm to Peter as they waited, whispering, “Don’t you fucking move,” in his urgent, frantic tone. Peter did as he said, scared beyond belief that maybe he was wrong, and Harley might be angry and emotional enough to get- to get riled up, to have one of his fits. He immediately felt ashamed because it was _Harley_. Harley might destroy things and threaten things, but he’d never hurt Peter, at least not in a bad way. Maybe a smack or two, and sometimes he got a bit _forceful_ during their salacious activities, but he’d never really hurt Peter. 

Bucky emerged from the stairs with a gas lantern, glaring at the pair of them for the moment. “Don’t take too long.” Then he stomped back up the stairs and shut the door behind him. 

Harley immediately started pushing Peter further into the basement. Hands hard, gripping Peter tightly, he pushed and he pushed until they were in the center of the room. It was definitely cramped. Small. Filled with all sorts of supplies ranging from dry food, to medical accoutrements, to bottles of illegal alcohol. Peter didn’t have time to get a good look before Harley set down the lantern, grabbed Peter by the chin, and firmly shoved him against a stack of boxes next to the wall.

“Harley-” Peter tried to speak, to ease Harley, but Harley tightened his grip on his jaw. 

“No,” he growled, eyes wild and frantic, “you’ve done enough talking.” His breaths came fast, shaking his head in disbelief. “How dare you talk back to me? You don’t get to do that. You don’t talk back to me. Not when I’m trying to protect you. Trying to look out for you. You don’t know _anything_ about this life, about _survival_ , so when I tell you to _shut up_ , you _shut up_ , you hear?”

“Harley-” Peter forced out, but Harley’s hand moved up to cover his mouth, silencing him.

“Stop,” Harley pleaded, chin trembling the slightest. “Just stop . . . talking. Just . . . stop.” He breathed deep, leaning in close, his face an inch from Peter’s. Body pressing against Peter, his left hand gripped Peter’s waist. “No more talking. No more.” He was so close his hips were grinding into Peter’s. Peter’s eyes went wide. _What was Hellcat going to do? What was his plan? Did he even have a plan, or was he just going a little wild?_

“Now, you listen, okay? You’re not _safe_ here. We don’t know these people. _You_ don’t know these people. Maybe they’re talking true, maybe they really want to help you, but they’re not us. Okay? It ain’t smart to move against us and go defend someone else, someone you just met. You don’t side with _anyone_ else. Do you understand me? You’re not them. You’re one of us. You’re _Peter_ goddamn _Stark_. I picked you out of a goddamn Boys’ Home just as easily as I could have killed you for blinking twice at me. You don’t get to side with anyone else, brother. You’re an Angel, I’m a Devil, but we’re Starks first, and we stand together. You understand? We stick together. We’re together.” 

Harley shook Peter fiercely, before whispering, his eyes blazing, “What were you thinking, Angel? Did they do something? Twist your mind up and leave you rattled? What did they do?”

Slowly and carefully, Peter raised his hand and gently grabbed Harley’s wrist. Harley didn’t move at first, watching Peter with wild eyes and a quivering chin, but eventually he released his tight grip. His hand moved from Peter’s mouth to cup his cheek, thumb hovering slightly over Peter’s chin. It shook, too. 

“I’m not moving against you. I’m not siding with anyone else. Okay? I swear,” Peter whispered, leaning in slightly, touching Harley’s forehead with his own, staring deep into his eyes. “I know who I am, Harley. I know where I stand. I know where I belong.” Peter reached his injured hand up to grasp Harley’s elbow. His other massaged Harley’s wrist with the slightest of pressure. “Please, believe me.”

Harley pushed into Peter, his breath quickening. “I thought I lost you.” He rubbed his face against Peter’s, “When I heard what happened. What you saw. How you ran. Ran off the property and to God knows where. Running blind with fear. Jumping on a trolley without a thought in your head and finding out you ended up here in Hell’s Kitchen. When I heard that I thought,” he stopped, grimacing in pain, “I thought you were gone for good.”

“I’m right here, Harley.” Peter squeezed slightly. Not much. Just enough to make it clear to the man in front of him. 

“But you weren’t,” Harley spoke forcefully, shaking Peter slightly. “You weren’t there.” His breath quickened once more, almost panting with what must be- fear? “I wasn’t there.”

“Harley-” Peter tried speaking again, but Harley released his grip on Peter’s waist and put it over his mouth once more. Peter’s eyes went wide, his heart pounding in his chest. 

“Shh,” Harley insisted, panting harder and faster than before, “you listen. Listen to me.”

Peter nodded, not wanting to worry Harley even more. 

Harley didn’t speak immediately, his wild eyes staring deep into Peter’s. His body kept pushing closer and closer, like he needed to crawl inside of Peter right then and there. That couldn’t happen though. Matt was listening, people were upstairs, but Peter didn’t know how to stop it. Part of him didn’t want to stop harley- because he wanted the same thing. Wanted Harley deep inside, making him feel safe and cared for, making him feel loved and full. It couldn’t happen though. Not right now. Not _here_.

“I can’t lose you, Angel. I know you’re Tony’s just as much as I am, but I’m the one who found you. I’m the one who plucked you from that State Home and brought you into the family. You’re my brother. You’re my everything.” Harley took a second to breathe. “You’re mine. You’re not theirs, you’re mine. _Mine_.”

Peter nodded in agreement. His injured hand went to Harley’s face, caressing it with softest pressure he could manage. Harley leaned into it, eyes drooping the slightest bit. Peter brushed his thumb across Harley’s cheekbone, surprised at the soft moan escaping Harley’s lips. “I can’t lose you, Angel. Don’t make me lose you. I just found you.”

Peter tried tugging on Harley’s hand again, desperate to speak and reassure him, but Harley wasn’t letting go. “No, you don’t get to _talk_. You’re _listening_ right now, and you’re going to listen to me.” His face rubbed more fiercely against Peter’s, like a cat in desperate need of a friendly, reassuring touch. “No one blames you for running from the Butcher. Not a damn person. _Especially_ not Tony. He doesn’t want the Angelside to see that side of him. It’s dark. It’s scary. It’s a dangerous part of himself that can’t stay locked away. You running was the smartest thing you could have done in that moment. No one’s mad at you for that.” His voice broke slightly, the hand cupping his cheek moved to cover Peter’s eyes. “Running off the property? You shouldn’t have done that. So many things could’ve happened to you and we wouldn’t have been able to stop it. You could’ve gotten hurt, you could’ve-” he stopped abruptly, head moving down to press against Peter’s chest as he caught his breath.

“I don’t care that Steve is your bodyguard. I don’t care that Bucky says to run to him or Steve when stuff happens. I don’t care if Tony says the same thing.” Harley straightened up, removed his hands from Peter’s face and forcefully grabbed the collar of his shirt and pushed him further against the wall, placing his forehead back on Peter’s as his panicked gaze met Peter’s. “When you’re scared out of your wits. When you’re so scared you can’t even think, you run to me. Okay? Say it. Say you’ll run to me.”

“I’ll run to you.” Peter trembled, tears leaking out of his eyes to splash onto his face. _Oh, Harley._

Harley nodded stiffly. “Yes. Say it again.”

“I’ll run to you, Harley.”

“Again.”

“I’ll run to you, Harley.” Peter cried.

“Again,” Harley’s voice broke, his voice breaking once more.

“I’ll run to you,” Peter sobbed, gripping Harley’s hands tight within his own. “I’m sorry I didn’t.”

“Why didn’t you?” Harley took a deep breath once more, exhaling its warm condensation along Peter’s skin. “Goddamnit, Angel, why didn’t you run to me?”

Peter shivered in Harley’s firm grasp, tears leaking onto their joined hands.“I didn’t know where you were. I didn’t know where any of you were.”

And just like that, with one last exhale, the tension in Harley disappeared, melting away like ice on a hot summer day. “I’m right here.” His hands released Peter’s shirt and cupped Peter’s face. “I’m right here, Angel.”

Then his lips were on Peter’s, and for one solid second everything was right again. No fear. No thoughts. Just the feel of their lips touching, hot breath coating his trembling skin, and their fingers intertwining. In the heat of the moment, everything was great. 

And then the door crashed open. 

“Time’s up. Move your asses,” Bucky’s firm voice ordered from up above.

Harley pulled back slightly, growling in annoyance. “Worst fucking timing.”

“It’s okay, Harley,” Peter whispered, pressing his lips to Harley’s in a gentle peck. “I’m right here. I’m okay.”

Harley rubbed his face against Peter’s once more. “I need- I need to know.” He leaned down, kissing the edge of Peter’s jaw. “I need to know.”

Peter breathed deep, calming his nerves. “Harley, we don’t have time for that.”

“Fuck Bucky. Fuck the rest of them. They can wait.” Harley panted in Peter’s ear, his groin rubbing against Peter’s. “I need to know you’re okay.”

“Harley,” Peter spoke more firmly, daring to grab Harley by the hair and pleading in his ear. “I’m okay. I’m not going anywhere. I’m safe. I’m safe because you’re with me. I’m okay because you’re here to protect me. I’m okay because I knew you would come to find me _and I was right_. You’re right here, and I’m with you. Right here in your arms.” He ran his fingers through Harley’s hair, kissing his neck ever so softly. “We’re okay, Harley. We’re okay because we got each other. We’re not alone. I’m not alone and you’re not alone. We’re okay.” 

Harley didn’t move for a good moment. Bucky shouted for the pair of them again, but neither of them answered. They remained still, finding comfort and safety in each other’s embrace. Eventually, Harley wrapped his arms around Peter and pulled him away from the wall, tucking his face in the crook of Peter’s neck. Peter continued to thread his fingers through Harley’s hair while his injured hand slowly went up and down Harley’s spine. 

“I need to know,” Harley insisted, almost whimpering in his plea.

“And you will,” Peter promised. “When we get home, you’ll know.”

Harley shook his head. “No, I won’t. Tony or Steve or Pepper will take you away and leave the rest of us waiting and wondering while they take care of you.” 

“Not if I get any say,” Peter insisted, though he knew it was a long shot, “We’ll make it work, Harley. We’ll make each other better.”

Loud footsteps sounded from above, “If I have to call you two one more time neither of you will be able to walk for a week! Now get your asses moving!”

“C’mon,” Peter whispered, kissing Harley’s cheek, “I’m right here with you.”

It took a few seconds to get Harley moving, but Peter was able to get him up the stairs before Bucky made it his mission to pull them both out by the scruff of their necks. Just as they reached the top and met Bucky’s angry gaze, Harley straightened up and grabbed ahold of Peter’s uninjured wrist. “Jeez, Jimmyboy, lighten up. Can’t a big brother scold his little brother in peace?” 

Bucky growled wordlessly, thoroughly unamused when Harley winked at him, then led the pair back to the table they had vacated previously. 

Just as they sat back down, Peter noticed Matt’s expression. The cloth was no longer wrapped around the top of his face, making his expression easier to read. Peter didn’t know why Matt chose now to take it off, but he didn’t focus on that. What he focused on were the multitude of emotions that seemed to cross the man’s expression. Concern was the dominant expression, suspicion and weariness on display as well, but there was something else there that confused Peter. Something that didn’t belong with the worry. It seemed so out of place that Peter was sure he was wrong about it. 

_Matt almost looked . . . jealous? No, that wasn’t right. It couldn’t be right. Matt? Jealous? Of what? Who? Harley?_ And yet his expression reminded Peter of Steve’s the day he stayed at the range while Clint was giving Peter lessons. Reacting to Clint’s blatant touches and Peter reciprocating them. It reminded Peter of how possessive Tony had looked- had _been-_ the morning after his kidnapping. Foggy’s footsy comment when Matt was teaching him how to play the bass line on the piano suddenly took on a new meaning. Peter shook his head. _No, it wasn’t jealousy. It was protective. That’s what it must be._ It made more sense than jealousy anyway, and much more in line with his actions throughout the night. Matt didn’t know Peter any more than Peter knew him. They’d only spent a few hours in each others’ company- even less considering all the preparations for the riot required Peter to spend most of his time upstairs with Foggy and Karen, while Matt stayed downstairs with Frank. Not enough time to become attached to someone or- or become _jealous_ of another.

Still, there was a darkness to that expression, a darkness Peter couldn’t deny or ignore. He wasn’t sure what to do when the dark-expressioned man gestured towards him as Harley pulled him in his arms and sat them back down on the table they vacated not long ago. _He’s just being protective_ , Peter assured himself. That’s it. That’s all. 

“You two get your brotherly bonding out of the way?” Jessica gritted, rolling her eyes at Harley’s blatant glare and Bucky’s glower. 

“None of your business,” Bucky growled, while Peter settled on the table. “Keep to your own and leave mine be.”

Jessica cocked an eyebrow, shifting to aim her defensive stance towards the Wolf. “Considering we’ve been looking out for the baby Prince, keeping him out of trouble and such all night, and the fact we’re all holed up together in _one of our own’s home_ , I’d wager it is my business.”

“Not only a crossdresser,” Harley taunted next to Peter, “but a dumb Dora, too. Who would have thought someone smart enough to work unnoticed for Richards at the Fantastic would be foolish enough to provoke the Butcher’s Wolf?”

“Oh? Is he a wolf?” Jessica challenged, looking thoroughly unimpressed. “I thought wolves protected their own? Kept them out of trouble and well within reach until the young were fit to defend themselves.” She glanced at Peter, cocking an eyebrow before addressing Harley once more, “Kid’s got a spine, no doubt about that anymore, but defending himself?” She shook her head, eyes filled with steel. “Not a chance.”

Peter reared back. “I did okay for myself.”

Jessica snorted. “Sure, kid. Of course. Never before have I seen bottles thrown so accurately without even looking to aim them. Not even by Karen. Certainly put Foggy to shame.”

Foggy raised his hands in defeat. “What can I say? Shoulder ain’t what it used to be.”

Peter smiled, feeling good about himself, until Bucky spoke up behind. “You threw what?”

Peter froze, eyes bulging before dropping to the floor, shoulders drooping and then tensing dramatically, unwilling to look at anyone. “Bottles. I didn’t see anything, though.”

“Why were _you_ throwing bottles?” Bucky questioned, tone turning dark.

“To-to,” Peter began stuttering, “to s-stop the men from c-coming at us.”

Anger brewed in Bucky’s voice. “And where were _you,_ exactly?”

“I was on the s-second floor behind the railing. We c-covered it up with s-some t-tables, took d-different posts-”

“Who’s we?”

“Me,” Jessica cut in. Peter looked up to see her twirl her poker once more. She wasn’t looking at Bucky, Harley, or the rest of them. Her eyes were on Matt and Frank. Frank made no movement, his focus primarily on the activity outside, but Matt slightly nodded, which prompted Jessica to continue, “Karen and Foggy were with us. Foggy and I took the main point of contention at the top of the stairs. The offensive position. Karen was with the Little Prince hiding behind the covered part of the railing. Eventually we got overrun and needed help, so Karen got Peter to throw bottles over the railing. When the fires started, both he and Karen grabbed the pails and poured water to help put them out. When the flames became too much of an issue, the four of us crawled out of a window to escape.”

“That how you hurt your wrist?” Harley chimed in just as Bucky growled, “Fires?” Harley’s tone was just as angry as Bucky’s though it was much more _loud_.

Peter sighed, glancing up at Jessica before nodding. “I was trying to catch Foggy. The smoke hit him harder than the rest of us. Got into a fit, couldn’t keep his grip, so he fell. He would have gotten really hurt if Karen and I hadn’t caught him-”

“And instead of him getting hurt, you did,” Harley growled, reaching out a single finger to caress the bandages Bucky carefully placed not so long ago. “Terrible trade off, if you ask me.”

“Guess it’s a good thing no one did,” Jessica spoke up, a smirk on her face that didn’t reach her steely eyes. 

Harley turned his dark gaze back to her. “I don’t like your tone.”

“Don’t care if you do, because I really don’t like you.” Jessica shrugged. 

“Stop it,” Peter uttered, his volume soft yet his back straightening, earning her attention. “Don’t talk about him like that.”

Jessica sighed, the steel in her eyes easing up. “It’s one thing to ask me not to lay into someone who isn’t there to defend themselves. It’s another thing when they are here. If Hellcat wants to talk up a storm, jabber up insults and taunts, then he can defend himself when the backlash comes to him. Okay?” 

“Oh, don’t worry about me, Angel,” Harley sneered, grasping the back of Peter’s neck in a firm grip. “I dance with the Widow every Thursday night. This crossdresser here’s got nothing on her.” 

“This crossdresser has a name, or are you too thick in the head to figure it out?” She wiggled her finger, blatantly gesturing towards Harley’s head, her meaning clear. 

Harley lost his sneer, straightening his back slightly. “Ain’t a fair trade. My brother gets hurt while your friend slumps in a seat untouched? Not a fair trade at all.”

“Hey, man,” Foggy spoke up, voice shaking just as much as his hands. “I didn’t set out to hurt him. I’ve been trying my best to look out for him all night, just like the rest of us-”

“And yet look what happened,” Harley growled, shifting slightly next to Peter to face Foggy. “All sorts of things could have happened tonight, yet you were the one to hurt him. My baby brother.”

“Harley-” Peter tried, hoping to stave off another upswing of temper from Harley. Harley squeezed the back of his neck slightly, stopping his attempt in its tracks.

“My baby brother hurt because you couldn’t hold onto a piece of rope?” he barked. Peter could hear the smile in the taunt. “Pathetic.”

“Not as pathetic as you,” Jessica cut in, “mocking and insulting those who kept the Little Prince alive while you two were sitting on your asses doing what? Nothing.”

“I’ll show you nothing,” Harley growled, releasing Peter and surging towards Jessica in an angry movement. Jessica had little time to react when Johnny - how could Peter have forgotten about Johnny - raced forward and grabbed Harley by the shoulders before he made it two steps. Bucky quickly shot into view, or rather his hands did, taking Harley by the scruff of his neck and shoving him down to sit on the table. Peter saw him gnash his teeth and glare at the woman before them while slinging his arm back over Peter’s shoulders. She stood tall, and merely rolled her eyes.

“Jessica, go take a seat,” Frank spoke up from the perch at the window. “Barnes, keep your Hellcat in line.”

Jessica raised her hands, fire poker included, in defeat. Bucky spoke up, his tone menacing and full of loathing. “Keep your bitch in line first.”

At long last, Frank turned away from the window. Dark and cold eyes landed on Bucky, and the stand off between the wolf and bear began. It wasn’t just an animalistic standoff, it was a battle of natures. Ice and fire facing off and standing their ground- the cold, icy demeanor of Frank versus the fiery, wild demeanor of Bucky. Peter was glad those gazes weren’t directed at him. He was certain he’d soil himself or worse if that were to happen. They were almost as scary as staring into the eyes of the Butcher. The unnerving, rage filled eyes of the Butcher that had cut Peter to his core and caused him to run blindly into this whole situation. He trembled at the memory, heart racing as a cold chill spread through his body. 

“There’s no need for that, Mr. Barnes,” Matt spoke up, his voice calm, assuring. Peter latched onto it as much as he was able. “No one here is interested in fighting one another, not with a mob of drunk and angry people outside waiting to slaughter us all. No one here is interested in getting Peter hurt. We’re all here in this house for the same reason. Protecting the Little Prince.” Matt gestured to Peter, who gave the man a small smile in relief. 

“Yeah- _yeah_ ,” Peter whispered, gripping Harley’s hand on his shoulder, turning to stare at Harley’s rigid form. “T-They could have t-told everyone I was h-here. All the pe-people that came looking for me t-tonight. Looking to h-hurt me. Instead, they h-helped me. They protected me. _All_ of them.” Drawing in a shaky breath, Peter squeezed Harley’s hand tighter before continuing, “and if they can survive a mob like this every night, then maybe they can stop it too?”

“Or maybe the Butcher should take a walk through Hell’s Kitchen?” Harley mused, deadly gaze trained on Jessica. She remained unimpressed, rolling her eyes again and taking a seat at the other table once more, her posture relaxed. Completely unthreatened. Peter wondered how often she put up with jibes and insults such as these. How often she threw them back with insults of her own. Insults that hit too close to home. Insults that were nothing more than terrible truths in disguise. 

“Burn it all down then drown out the rats in all the red paint we sling, those too stupid to die in the flames.” Harley laughed, wearing a twisted smile. “The flames would be kinder than the Butcher after what happened tonight.”

“I can see how that’s a beautiful thought for you,” Matt cut in, fists clenching and relaxing minutely, testing them, appraising them. “Watching your idol stroll through this hell, dressed as the Sheik all the ladies love. Looking like a god among men- when really he’s the worst devil of us all. Walking the streets as screams flail about in the night. The sickening glee that fuels him. That smile, the cruel smile that makes brave men cower and hardened women scream for mercy. I might be blind, Hellcat, but I still see in my own way. I saw the Butcher walk through here before. Not once, but twice. He walked through here with his soldiers, then walked through here again with the Wolf and his Captain,” Matt paused, nodding to Bucky, “even had Tasha and her Hawk strolling with him.” He stopped, grunting in annoyance, frustration leaking into his expression. “Why don’t you ask Sgt. Barnes how their last walk through here turned out?”

Peter and Harley glanced at Bucky. Peter had to shift his body slightly so he could crane his neck without straining it too much. His eyes bulged at the sight of Bucky- his clenched jaw, crossed arms with tightened and bulging muscles, his white knuckled grip. His eyes were piercing, a terrifying glare that didn’t ease in the slightest, even when he caught Peter staring. And that somehow made it more terrifying. He always seemed to ease up when he saw Peter. Now he didn’t. It could only mean Matt was right. The Starks had lost before. Peter turned back around to face the Defenders, knowing in his heart that the continuous glare on Bucky’s face meant much more than a loss. 

It meant failure.

“Don’t matter how it turned out in the past,” Harley growled, bristling and twitching, turning to meet Matt’s vacant gaze. “Tomorrow’s a new day-”

“And so will be the day after,” Matt interrupted, tone filled with irritation, “but Hell’s Kitchen remains the same. No matter how many soldiers and new blood the Butcher incorporates, every time he walks through these streets will end the same way. Painted alleys, butchered souls, and wild rage that can’t be contained- and won’t be killed.”

“Just you wait-” Harley growled, fingers twitching, itching for a fight, when Matt interrupted once more, an angry cast on his stern expression. 

“Oh, all of Hell’s Kitchen has been waiting. Months. Years really. Waiting and waiting for the Butcher of New York to make another pass. Waiting for the Butcher to succeed and stop the madness once and for all. I know because I’m one of them,” Matt shot back, brow furrowing and tone seeping with his frustration. “Outsiders like you, wealthy and prominent throughout the city, can never take this place. More importantly, it’s not even worth it. Your Sheik recognized that. It’s why he abandoned it in the first place. Why he doesn’t bother taking walks through this hell- because it’s nothing more than a waste of time to him.” He took a breath, shifting his body to face Harley better. “Stark blood has painted these streets before. Not once, but twice. Painted the streets and ran through the gutters, too. Ran all night until the dust finally settled at dawn. Each time the Butcher stood tall among the fallen, but he failed in the long run because this place is too wild, too angry, too rough to contain.” 

Matt sighed, rubbing his face in agitation. “Taking a walk through our Hell ain’t going to solve anything. It won’t make you feel better or even justified. The only thing you’ll achieve is painting a place that’s been drowning in red for far too long.”

“Sounds like my kind of place,” Harley snarked, seemingly unaffected by Matt’s speech. It did affect Peter though. He could picture the scene Matt described. See the Butcher wearing the same clothes that made Tony the “Sheik” that Peter absolutely loved to watch. Peter loved to watch his careful, sure movements. Watch how graceful and refined he could be. It was like watching the best one man performance in the entire world. Now, with that image, it somehow made the Butcher even more terrifying to Peter.

Matt shook his head, gesturing carelessly to the front entrance. “By all means, go take your walk. Paint the alleys. Drop the bodies. You’ll find plenty already in search of a good fight. I assure you though, you won’t find satisfaction. Only exhaustion. The people out there are just going to keep coming and coming, and you’re not going to be able to stop them. Not with your Wolf. Not with your Butcher. Not with anyone and everyone in your whole empire-”

“Because they’re-we’re outsiders,” Peter cut in with a small voice, tensing up when all eyes landed on him. “And the only ones who can stop the m-madness are the ones who understand it best. Someone who lives on the inside.”

For the briefest of moments, Matt and Peter stared at one another. Peter knew Matt couldn’t really see him, but he felt the older man’s attention on him all the same. In that sliver of time, it felt like they understood each other. Matt smiled, nodding the tiniest bit. Peter’s heart warmed at the approval. An answering smile started to grow. 

“That’s enough,” Bucky growled from behind Peter. There was movement, table jostling the slightest bit, and then suddenly Bucky was right in front of him. Grabbing hold of his shirt, Harley released the back of his neck as Bucky pulled him to his feet. Peter didn’t look up. He’d seen too many angry glares today. He couldn’t take another one. “No more jawing out of you.”

Peter struggled to keep up with Bucky’s sudden, forceful pace as the man dragged him away from the table and over towards the kitchen area. From the corner of his eye he saw Matt rise once more from his seat next to Frank. Harley adjusted his stance to face him, as did Johnny. He saw Ben start to move when Bucky pulled him into the kitchen and turned him wildly. Peter refused to look up, staring at the buttons on Bucky’s shirt. There was blood on it. How did he miss that before?

“Sit down, and slide into the back corner,” Bucky growled, grabbing his shoulder and pushing down. Peter went willingly, careful to reach out with his good hand to steady himself on the ground. He started sliding away when Ben’s boots came into view. “You and Johnny keep him over here. No one else talks to him for the rest of the night.”

“You got it,” Ben rumbled.

“Bucky,” Peter tried, not wanting Bucky mad at him on top of everything, but realized his mistake too late. He barely got the name out when Bucky turned back, kneeled in front of Peter, and grabbed in his chin in an almost bruising grip. Almost. He brought Peter’s face up, forcing the boy to look at him. He was angry, so angry. Peter felt his chest tighten in panic.

“No more out of you. You can’t trust these people, Angel, especially half measures like Castle over there.” Bucky whispered, tone full of fury. “They’ll use you, take your goodness and weigh it in their favor. That ain’t fucking happening, not on my watch. So you sit there, and keep your trap shut. I hear you make a peep before sun-up, I ain’t going to be held responsible for what I do. Understand?”

Peter nodded, chin quivering in Bucky’s hold. 

Bucky glared at him, watching the single tear trace down Peter’s cheek. “Save those for the Butcher, because you don’t want me dealing with them right now,” he growled bluntly, harshly. Yet the thumb from his free hand reached out to wipe those tears away, and the thumb was gentle as it brushed Peter’s flushed skin. 

Peter sniffled, jerking a nod while focusing on calming his breathing. 

“I’ll get you a blanket so it’s not too cold for you,” Bucky whispered, leaning in close to speak softly in Peter’s ear, “don’t move from this spot until Ben or I give the okay.”

Peter nodded one last time, biting his lips to keep from talking. Bucky ruffled his hair, risking a kiss to that soft, gentle spot behind his ear. “Good, Angel.”

Then he stood to his feet and walked away, leaving Peter behind with Ben watching him with careful, scrutinous eyes and Johnny watching just as cautiously at his side. Bucky handed him a blanket a moment or two later, helping Peter wrap it around his shoulders to keep him warm, then left him once again. Apart from a muted sigh or two, Peter sat very still and tried hard to make no sound for Bucky to overhear at all.


	4. I used to have a Family

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> One more chapter to go, and then a teaser for Emberxashton's AU (and hopefully a link!!)

“How do you know Bucky?” Peter asked, tone small and unintentionally squeaky. He hadn’t spoken since the argument. The message Matt gave Harley about Hell’s Kitchen and the uselessness of fighting a war in Hell’s Kitchen was received loud and clear. Not Harley by a long shot. Knowing him, Peter surmised his brother was already making plans and practicing how he’d pitch them to Tony, or rather The Butcher, but Peter certainly took it to heart. He didn’t want to make anything worse. He didn’t want to worry them anymore. It killed him what he had put them through the last day. Still, after tensions and tempers flared last night, this was his only chance to speak to Frank before Harley and Bucky took him home, along with Johnny and Ben. The dawn has arrived. Ben and Johnny were getting the car. He needed to talk to him.

Frank and Peter were sitting on the steps at the entrance of the house with both Bucky and Harley watching him and the area like hawks. It was surprisingly cold, forcing Peter to hunch in and wrap his arms around his chest. Smoke filled the air, fires still smoldered, random people milled about but even Peter could tell they weren’t dangerous. They looked reminiscent of how Peter felt. Dazed, lost, and more than a little rattled after the previous night's events. From what Peter could see, Hell’s Kitchen looked relatively the same, apart from the small addition of the fires littered up and down the street. It looked to Peter that the only building to take real damage was the bar they were forced to vacate. That made him feel both better and worse. Better because the whole neighborhood wasn’t forced to endure abandoning their home in favor of not being burned to death. Worse because Frank and the rest still lost their home. Their work. 

“We were in the war together,” Frank responded in his gruff tone. “Different units, though. He was in the 107th, I was in the 98th. We crossed paths more than once though, and each time we did, we hated each other even more.”

“Why?”

Frank snorted. “War affects people in many different ways, Peter. Makes us discover parts of ourselves we’d rather not know. Parts that were better left alone. Instincts that should have stayed buried and unearthed. Instincts you yourself might have felt last night.” Frank glanced at Peter, eyeing him carefully. “I’m surprised you were able to keep your head through all of that.”

“It was hard,” Peter admitted, “sitting there and not being able to do anything. Sitting and drowning in the noise. It was so _loud_.”

Frank nodded. “Yeah. The noise. The one thing that fucks you over the most because it’s the last thing you think of when trying to heal, to mend from the experience. It sneaks up on you when you least expect it. A loud bang. Drop a stack of books. Shooting a gun. Slamming a door. Each one takes you right back and suddenly the adrenaline’s up. Pulse pounding, hands itching for a weapon, senses going haywire, eyes searching wild for the threat that’s coming. The threat that means to hurt you. Kill you.”

Peter trembled at the memory. “Karen ended up helping me. She told me to start throwing bottles over the railing.”

“And it made you feel a thousand times better. Huh?”

“Yeah, it did.” Peter remembered with perfect clarity. “Almost as much as analyzing the gun sounds, figuring out what’s wrong with them. Thinking about different types of weapons, bullets, cartridges, you name it.” He took a breath, biting his lip. “Why do you and Bucky hate each other?”

Frank growled, tearing his gaze away from Peter to survey the area. “Do you know my story, Peter?”

Peter shook his head, “Matt mentioned it earlier. Said I should ask you about it.”

Frank nodded. “I used to have a family. A wife. Two kids. A boy who would be about your age by now, and a baby girl,” his voice broke at that, “a beautiful baby girl. She had these big brown eyes. Wide as buttons on a doll’s face. Sweet and soft as can be. Happy. So different from her brother.” He shook his head, smirking slightly, gazing far off into old memories. “Her brother, my son, was always looking to prove himself. Be the man of the house, protect the girls, and yet he couldn’t hit the side of a barn even when he was standing 3 feet from it. Not because he couldn’t aim, just couldn’t pull the trigger. He’d get so angry, staring at the target with the perfect stance, yet he didn’t have the gumption to move that muscle. I never faulted him for it, and I never will. The world would be better off if more people were like that.”

Frank grunted, shifting slightly. “When I was fighting for our country, fighting to stop tyrants and foreigners over one fucking man who died in a country I’ll never see, my family was robbed. Robbed by a gang of thugs who were filled with nothing but hate and lust. They robbed them- my wife and my children. They robbed them, and then they killed them. Killed them in my own home and left them there to rot.” He took a breath, expression stiff and cold. “They were dead for weeks when I finally found out the truth.”

“Oh, my God,” Peter murmured, unsure of what else to say. 

“My gun was in his hand. My son. It was in his hands, that finger on the trigger. Not a single bullet was fired.” Frank jerked his head, teeth baring slightly at the memory. “I tore through this damn neighborhood.” Frank clenched his fists, eyes glazing over. Peter wondered if he could see it now. See what happened. See what he did. “I ripped through man after man until I found the ones responsible. I ripped them apart and made them feel the pain my family went through. Feel the pain that I was going through. Once everything was done, I realized something. Those men weren’t the only ones to do that. They hurt my family, but there were so many more men like them that hurt and murder families like mine. Men in this city. Men that I can reach, that I can hurt first. Except for a few.”

Peter’s eyes went wide when Frank returned his glacial gaze to his trembling form. “Barnes over there might be tempered, but make no mistake, kid. That man is a murderer, and he takes pleasure in it- just like the men who murdered my family. Who murdered my son, who couldn’t do the same back to them. I saw it over there. Saw the glee in those eyes as he took life after life, covered in blood and dirt and charging towards the enemy like it was the only thing he ever wanted to do.”

“When did you see that?” Peter asked suddenly, a surprising firmness in his voice. “Where did you see that?”

“Flavy-le-Martel,” Frank furrowed his brow, confused at the sudden steel Peter emanated. 

“So after he escaped captivity?” Peter cocked an eyebrow. 

“You mean after _we_ escaped?” Frank asked, retaining his glacial stare.

Peter flinched.

“You were- you were with?” he mumbled, glancing over at Bucky, quickly looking away from his menacing gaze. It wasn’t aimed at him or Frank, but Peter didn’t want to call his attention towards the pair of them. Something in his gut told him he wanted to hear what Frank had to say next.

“Yeah,” Frank thankfully interrupted. “It’s why it took so long for me to find out about my family. Around the time they were murdered I was held captive with your Wolf and a bunch of other soldiers. We didn’t talk much, him and I. Different units, different specialties, different people.” He took a breath, eyes unblinking as he stared Peter down. “As time wore on, all I could think about was getting back to my family just like most other fellas in there. Barnes though, boy, he was a different case. Every day in those dark cages the look in those eyes got darker and darker. Whatever light used to live in those eyes died and was replaced by hatred. Bitter, cold, and bloody hatred. Almost like the man died waiting for a bit of light only to be reborn in the darkness and birth the monster he is today.” 

Frank grunted, tensing his jaw. “Not going to lie to you, kid. There were a few times in there I thought I was going to have to kill him. With that look, the stare of a cold blooded killer, I knew it was only a matter of time before he killed us all. Then out of the blue, like a firework crackling on the fourth of July, Captain Steve Rogers showed up out of nowhere. Dressed all fancy in a uniform that could have been made by the gods themselves, shining a light on the monster that used to be his friend, and together they fought their way out.” Frank shook his head, his grunt mocking and filled with ire, “And when the Wolf was released from his cage, the only man safe on that damn battlefield was his Captain.”

Peter’s heart thumped painfully as Frank continued in a dark, solemn tone. Staring at him with a gaze that made Peter think Frank wasn’t even seeing him anymore. “So many souls died that day. Innocent souls who were in the wrong place at the wrong time. Evil souls that got what they deserved. So much blood. So much death. My men and his men didn’t help matters, but when they, when we killed, it was quick, clean. When _he_ killed,” Frank shook his head once more, expression unnerved, “it wasn’t. It was bloody. It was messy. It was cruel, and needless.” Frank took a breath, continuing in a brusque tone that left Peter trembling. “He wanted them to hurt. Wanted them to suffer. Just like the men who killed my family.”

Frank stopped then, opting to watch Peter’s trembling response instead. Peter hadn’t been prepared for that story. Hadn’t been prepared for his reaction. Part of him simply felt scared, horrified at Bucky’s past. He had so many questions. Questions about what could have happened to Bucky to turn him into the monster Frank described. Another part of him, a bigger part than he would ever admit to the Starks, was relieved that Frank had told him the story at all.

Since he became Peter Stark, all the stories he’d been told have been _nice_ stories. _Nice_ stories and he knew there must have been a hundred pleasant white lies he’d been given to eat with his morning oatmeal before moving about the day. White lies to keep him from questioning the darker aspects of the family business. It unnerved Peter to realize how much he truly appreciated Frank in that moment. He felt humbled that Frank would tell him this harsh truth. Whether it was to scare Peter, test him, or trusted him with the information didn’t matter. What mattered was that Frank told him the whole truth just like Matt said he would, and Peter had never felt more alive, emboldened by that trust.

“I don’t think Bucky was taking pleasure in just killing,” Peter stated in a soft voice. “Sounds to me like he was enacting vengeance on the ones who held him captive and kept him from the ones he loved, just like you enacted vengeance on those that murdered your family.” Peter took in a shaking breath, not thinking before he continued, “I think the reason why you two hate each other is because you’re both too similar, but not in the ways that count.”

“Yeah, how do you figure that?”

“If Bucky really was like the men who killed your family, who took pleasure in hurting others, I would have been dead a long time ago.” He gestured to himself. “I’m easy pickings. A lamb for slaughter in more ways than one. Even with Mr. Stark adopting me, if Bucky were truly like those men, I-I’d have been dead within a week.” He breathed in, steadying his nerves. “You kill to avenge your family and protect other families from men like them. Bucky kills to avenge himself, and protects those he cares about. It’s twisted. Askew. Bucky doesn’t look out for the little guy like you and your brigade. He looks out for his own, and that’s it. Similar motives, yet different focuses.” 

Peter took a calming breath. “The main difference I see between the two of you is . . . restraint. When you and the soldiers were set free, you killed who you needed to, swift and clean. You say Bucky didn’t, though, and I- I believe you. I believe he made sure it hurt. He probably would have died doing so if Steve wasn’t there to have his back. You hold back until you have to let loose, while Bucky needs his Captain to hold him back or else he’ll _go_ loose. I bet that’s why you can’t stand him, and he can’t stand you. You’re both doing the same things, and yet on different levels that pisses the other off. You want to go loose but you won’t, and he thinks you’re weak _because_ you won’t.”

Frank remained silent, staring deep into what Peter thought to be his soul. What would he find there? Was he dirtied up because of this conversation alone? Did he even care?

“You _are_ too smart.” Frank smirked. “I bet you read textbooks and medical journals for fun.”

Peter shook his head, jerky and tense. “Only when I’m bored.”

He grunted. It sounded amused. “So, he looks out for you?” Frank inquired, gaze hardening despite his amusement. 

“He wouldn’t have come here otherwise,” Peter shot back, realizing that he was glaring at the man in return. “You said you saw the man die while the monster sprang to life? If that were true, he wouldn’t be here today. Wouldn’t have patched me up or took care of me.” Peter raised his injured wrist as evidence. Frank barely glanced at it. “I know you won’t believe me, and you have every reason to do so, but I’m telling you true. There’s still a man in there. He’s not just a wolf, there’s still goodness in him. I know it. I’ve seen it. I’ve felt it.” He raised his wrist a little higher, capturing Frank’s eyes and trying to hold them there. “Trust me on that.”

They stared each other down. Never blinking, never ceasing. A battle of wills between the pair. Peter couldn’t believe he was doing this, but he couldn’t stop now. He was aware of Bucky and Harley inching ever closer to the pair. He desperately hoped they didn’t hear any part of this conversation- though he was sure if they did, they would have put a stop to it immediately. He was aware that Frank had his gun at the ready should anything happen. Peter wasn’t going to stop. He was a Stark, and Starks don’t back down. He knew he was still a lamb, but for this moment he was going to be a wolf. Just like Starks, wolves don’t back down. Not even to bears in the form of The Punisher. 

“I don’t think you’re a lamb, kid,” Frank suddenly spoke, placing a hand on Peter’s shoulder. “My son was a lamb. He never showed it, but he was just as sweet and soft as my baby girl. Maybe you were before the Starks got hold of you, but not anymore. You’re too gentle, too kind to be anything harsh like the wolf, but there’s bite to you, as well.” 

“H-How do you figure that?” Peter stared at him wide eyed. “No one’s ever equated me to that, well e-ever.”

“It’s like you said, sitting and doing nothing while drowning in the noise was unbearable, but the moment you had something to do, even if it was just throwing bottles, you felt a thousand times better. And if you need more proof, you just defended a man, one who is _not_ worthy of you defending him, right to my face even though I can’t fucking stand him for good reason. You know what that says about you?” Peter shook his head, and Frank continued, “You’re a fighter Peter Stark. Deep down when the going gets tough, you’ll fight instead of cower.”

“But I ran-”

“Just ‘cause you run doesn’t make you a coward, especially when the thing you’re running from is the Butcher of New York. Fuck, it’s like that brother of yours said: It’s the smartest thing you could have done.” He smirked suddenly. “You want to know what I think you are?”

Peter inclines his head, nodding jerkily in anticipation, “What?”

“I think you’re a spider. A spider that weaves webs over and over again, no matter how many times they get ruined. A little spider that keeps pushing forward and creates beautiful things out of nothing. Making connections with even the most fearsome of creatures. A little spider-with a deadly bite if anyone gets too close.” 

Peter snorted delicately. “When I was at the Boys’ Home, before the Starks found me, I used to save spiders from the Matron’s broom. Everyone was so scared of them, but I never saw a problem with them. There was one time I saw a black widow tucked away in the corner of the little ones’ room. Didn’t realize that’s what it was at first, but it wouldn’t have mattered if I did. The Matron was busy scolding some boys for slacking off with their job so the little ones found me. I didn’t know why everyone was so scared of it. I just let her crawl into my hand, carried her outside, placed her on the ground and let her go on her way. Everyone was so terrified of what happened, and I never understood why. She didn’t hurt me. If she were so bad, why didn’t she do it?”

“You didn’t know black widows are poisonous?”

“Matron told me afterwards.” Peter grimaced. “That wasn’t a fun conversation.”

“Wow, a real spider man, ain’t you?” Frank snorted, shaking his head slightly, “Well, if that widow didn’t bite you, I’m sure the one you’re dealing with now will rectify that.” His gaze lost the hardness, quickly replaced by amazement. “You got some balls, kid. Matt was right.”

“What do you mean, he was right?”

Frank took his hand off the gun and dug into his pocket, pulling out a folded piece of paper. “I wasn’t sure if you’d be able to handle doing this. Being our direct contact and such. I was pretty sure you’d hand it over to Barnes, Rogers, or the Butcher himself. Matt told me otherwise.” He handed the paper to Peter. “If you’ve got the nerve to stare me down without blinking, then you can handle this. Now, pay attention.”

Peter nodded, taking the paper from Frank’s grip. “This piece of paper is for you and the Butcher’s eyes only. Okay? Some of this stuff you’re not going to be able to do, that’s why he gets to see it, but if this is going to work, _you_ are our direct contact. Not him, not anyone else, _you_. Okay? Make sure he knows that. Take a look at it before Grimm and Storm come back with the car.”

Peter nodded dutifully, and looked at the message Frank gave him. On it was a list of conditions, the same conditions Matt mentioned hours ago. Peter took them in, memorizing them as quickly and carefully as he could. 

_Peter is our contact, no one else._

_Peter calls in once a week to stay in check. Any problems or concerns will be discussed then or a meeting will be arranged to discuss in person. Neutral location should it occur._

_Out of town men will be supplied. No connections to New York, Hell’s Kitchen, Starks, and certainly not Fisk._

_The Starks stay out of Hell’s Kitchen permanently with the exception of Peter. If Peter is in need of a safehouse, make a call and arrange a neutral spot for pick up and transport to Hell’s Kitchen._

“You got it kid?” Frank asked, pulling Peter’s attention back to him. 

“Yeah, I think so.” Peter nodded obediently.

“Good, make sure to discuss all of that with the Butcher.” Frank pulled out another piece of paper, “Now, this one you don’t look at. Okay? This one’s only for the Butcher. Understand?”

“Why?”

“It’s a list of names and instructions on what to do with them. Names of people responsible for my family’s murder.”

“I thought you said you got all of them? The men who did that to your family?” Peter asked, confused and wary.

Frank shook his head. “No, a few of them got away.” He shifted slightly, eyeing Bucky momentarily before speaking, “On the back of your paper is how you’re going to reach us. The bar will have to be rebuilt, so we’ll be staying at Claire’s in the meantime. You can get in touch with us here, okay? When you call, ask for Matt or myself. Once in a while Jessica will have the info, and that’s fine, but always make sure to speak to one of us first. Okay?”

“Got it.” Peter nodded.

Frank eyed Peter carefully just as the sound of a car pulling up reached Peter’s ears, but he didn’t pay it any mind. Frank had something to say. He wasn’t done yet.

“You’re a good kid, Peter. Don’t change that. Don’t let them and their . . . _appetites_ change that. Okay?”

Peter felt his eyes instinctually widen, but caught them just in time before it became noticeable. Unfortunately, Frank wasn’t fooled. Peter could tell by the way he smiled. “Kid, I murder and maim people on an almost nightly basis. I ain’t judging.” He gestured to the house where Matt and rest were currently waiting for Frank. “We ain’t judging . . . well ‘cept maybe Jessica. Besides, I was in the war. You find pleasure when and where you can. As long as it isn’t hurting anyone and it ain’t your sister, then who the fuck cares.” He patted Peter’s shoulder before resuming a serious expression. “Just don’t let them change you. Alright?”

“Got it.” Peter tucked away the opened note in his front shirt pocket and the unopened note in his jacket pocket. 

Both Frank and Peter stood at the same time. Johnny pulled up in his red, flaming car with Ben in the passenger seat. Harley and Bucky instantly rushed to Peter, each taking an arm and pulling him away. “Take care Matt,” Peter muttered under breath, knowing without a doubt the man could hear it. “Tell the rest I said thank you. Especially Frank, will you?”

“No more talking,” Bucky growled, pulling him towards the car, opening the door and practically throwing poor Peter inside with Harley quickly following. The door shut. Harley slung an arm across Peter’s shoulders and held him tight to his side. Peter got one last look at Frank standing in the doorway, watching Peter intensely. He really was a bear of a man. Matt emerged in the open doorway, smirking and nodding at Peter. Peter found himself smiling too, trying not to think about the strange look on Matt’s face from earlier in the morning yet he couldn’t keep his speech out of his head. 

Peter hoped this wasn’t the last time he’d get to see him.

Bucky opened the door to the otherside of the car and took the empty seat next to Peter. He gripped Peter’s knee in a tight, yet gentle grasp. “Let’s get him home.”

With a nod, Johnny raced away, leaving Hell’s Kitchen and all its inhabitants behind in the dust. 


	5. So, you’ve seen the Butcher.

The sheets were scratchy. The bed was too stiff, like it was unused and merely for show. The air tasted stagnant, filled with dust and other things Peter couldn’t identify. It felt wrong, incredibly wrong to be in here. Where was _here_ anyway?

He woke up in a room he didn’t recognize. There was no color. Just hues of white and grey with bits of black. A single chair sat at the corner of the room next to the main door. A single dresser, a small table next to the bed that was surprisingly big. Peter didn’t notice that before. There was a body sized divot on the left side of the bed where a person, whoever this room belonged to, slept for most part. It was the closest to the door. Peter didn’t see any personal belongings. Apart from the divot, it appeared no one used this room at all. Somehow that made everything worse.

He felt terrible. His body ached, his wrist burned, and his head pounded. He kicked off the scratchy sheets, surprised to find most of his borrowed clothes were missing. Where were his pants? His shirt? Wasn’t he wearing a jacket? All he wore now were his undershirt and underwear, but not the ones he was wearing yesterday. Had someone changed him? He knew he should be more worried, but he couldn’t bring himself to do so. With everything he was feeling, his heart hurt the most. It felt weighed down, like a heavy anchor swung back and forth like a pendulum in his chest. Weighed down by an emotion Peter was confused by. Guilt. He felt guilty. But why did he feel so guilty? What was going on?

And then he remembered.

In a flash, a flood of memories surged through Peter’s mind, and suddenly everything made sense. Angry eyes. The color red. A crumpled body. Construction site. Frank and his giant physique. Matt and his gilded, smooth voice talking over piano keys. Foggy’s frustrated mannerisms. Karen washing glasses. Jessica pouring whiskey. Peter’s phone call to Pepper. Bags filled with weapons and supplies. Glass bottles. Fire and smoke. Screams in alleys. Harley and Bucky racing toward him and embracing him. Angry conversations with equally irate tempers. Harley in the basement. Matt’s attentive expressions. Talking with Frank on the porch steps. The letters he tucked into his jacket. Riding home with an angry Bucky but surprisingly calm Harley. Jarvis’s relief at the sight of Peter.

And then there were dark eyes. Rage filled eyes that hadn’t changed in the slightest since he took off running in fear. Everyone said Tony didn’t blame him, that he wasn’t mad at Peter, that he was going to make this all okay. 

They were wrong. 

Peter had seen Tony in the study, the same study where he first saw the Butcher standing over a crumpled, whimpering man. Nothing had changed. The same rage was in those eyes. The same hatred, the same glee, the same malice. Peter had seen it just as clearly as before, only this time he couldn’t run. Bucky and Harley each had a steady hand on him, Johnny and Ben were waiting at the back door. Everyone had eyes on him. Before, the only person that saw him was the Butcher, and the Butcher was preoccupied. He couldn’t run, so his body reacted in the only way it could to protect him from such an undeniable threat. That’s what the Butcher was. A threat. The Devil who runs the household and puts fear into the hearts of the Wolf and the Hellcat. The Butcher is the worst Devil of them all, just like Matt said not too long ago.

Peter couldn’t run, though he desperately wanted to. He wanted to run now with the memory of those eyes so fresh in his mind. Peter couldn’t run, so his body did the only thing it could do to protect him from the dark, hateful gaze of the Butcher.

He fainted, and now he had no idea where he was.

He clung to one thing, in all the strangeness. He wasn't back in the State Home. He wasn't thrown back, unwanted, discarded, to the dirty floors and crumbling bricks, to the yellow-glass filtered light and rooms crammed full of New York's unwanted youth. Not even the Butcher would send him back there, it seemed. He knew too much, had seen too much. He’d like to think that everyone pitched in and pleaded with Tony to keep him because they cared about him, but at the moment he didn’t believe it. When the Butcher gave an order, the order was followed. It wouldn’t matter how the rest felt about it even if they did plead for him. That’s just the way it was. Even on the Angelside, Peter knew that. He’s the Boss, and no one says no to the boss. He hoped Tony still cared about him, but looking around the stagnant room in his daze, in his pain, Peter found it incredibly hard to believe.

He began to sit up, moving slowly and carefully, while pondering where exactly he could be when the knob on the door started to turn. 

Eyes bulging, heart racing, Peter sat frozen on the bed, hands gripping the bedspread with a surprisingly tight grip despite the protesting pain from his injured wrist. His chin trembled, shivers running up and down his spine as the door slowly opened. Who was coming in? Did this mean something good? Something bad? Tears began to blur his vision. 

“Shall I inform Mrs. Stark you’ll be late coming to bed?” Jarvis’s smooth, clipped tone wafted through the open door.

“No, I shouldn’t be long,” Tony responded, striking Peter to the core. He didn’t sound angry, he sounded tired. So tired. A mixture of relief and worry filled his chest as Tony continued. “I’m just going to give him the tonic, fill him in on what’s going on, and then I’ll head off. When will Happy arrive?”

“Once he’s done dealing with the new recruits and readjusting the perimeter per your request. I sent word with Ms. Karen not too long ago, so it should be any minute now. He knows to wait outside the door until you’re finished. I will wait here until he arrives, if you’ll allow me.”

“Not necessary,” Tony answered gruffly, “you’ve done beautifully today. You and Happy both. Out of all the _men_ in this house, you two are the only ones I trust to do your job right.”

“You honor us,” Jarvis spoke swiftly. “I must assure you, though, that simply isn’t the case. Many of the men can- and have- done well by you in the past.”

“True, but when shit starts flying, you two are the ones I never have to worry about. Never have to call out, beat down, motivate. You just do. Do your jobs, your tasks without question.” A slight pause, soft chuckle. “I often say the only people keeping this empire afloat are Natasha and Pepper, but in times like these I realize how quickly this empire would fall if you and Happy weren’t here to keep things going.”

“Flattery does not suit you,” Jarvis stated in a clipped tone of voice, but Peter sensed the warmth in the jest.

“It suits me just as well as you receive it,” Tony quipped, a shadow of his charm coloring his tone. “Thank you, Jarvis.”

“You are most welcome.” There was a pause, long and drawn out. Peter expected Tony to come in, heart pounding at suddenly facing the man, ready to throw himself at his feet and apologize profusely, when Jarvis spoke once more. “May I speak freely, sir?”

“You never have to ask.” Tony’s voice warmed considerably, almost sounding like his normal self. 

“I know my place, therefore I must,” Jarvis returned in his clipped tone, but it wasn’t sharp. In fact, in comparison to Jarvis’ usual manner, it was gruff. “I am worried, sir. More than usual.”

“Everyone is,” Tony agreed, “ and everyone should be. These weren’t our best hours. Our enemies will take advantage of that.”

“I’m not referring to that. Though the consequences from recent events do give me pause, I have no doubt you and your Devils will handle them just as Pepper and the Angels will offer tasteful solutions for the world to accept and move along. These things are not what upset me.” 

“What’s troubling you?”

Another pause. Peter heard an abrupt inhale of breath. “We’ve never had someone like Peter before. In this house, in this world, in this family. Never.” Another inhale, voice shaking the slightest bit. “I’m afraid of what this ordeal will do to him, to the family. I’m not talking about the Butcher. I’m talking about his night in Hell and how lucky he was to find Mr. Murdock when things could have ended so . . . so terribly wrong. There are so many things that could have happened to that poor boy-”

“I know,” Tony cut him off, tone of voice angry and tense. “I know,” he repeated, this time calmer, softer.

“None of which would have been your fault,” Jarvis interjected softly, “despite how things came about.”

“May we get to the point, Jarvis?” Tony interrupted, tone quickly losing his newfound warmth. “I have a boy to put to sleep and a wife that needs tending to.”

“Of course, sir,” Jarvis answered promptly, “I just want to ensure that everyone is careful around him, at least until we know the extent of his experience. Please don’t misunderstand that. I know _you_ will, along with Mrs. Stark and Mr. Hogan, but I’m hesitant about the rest. Not just the family, but anyone else Peter is to come in contact with once things begin to settle. I don’t know how he’s going to react to all of this. That’s what troubles me, sir. The waiting. Pondering.”

“I understand, Jarvis, and I appreciate your candor. Rest assured, the people permitted to accompany Peter for the time being will be most careful of their words and keep a sharp eye on him until he’s assessed. Honestly, if it were up to Mrs. Potts, he’d be sleeping in the bed with us until Christmas instead of shacking up with Happy in there.” _Happy? This is Happy’s room?_ Peter took another glance around, realization dawning. It made sense. The man worked constantly, it made sense his room would match his demeanor. Straight to the point, get what you need, and no fussing around. “That being said, Pepper and Happy will have all of his time until everything balances out so he might as well be sleeping in there.”

“But he won’t be,” Jarvis concluded, tone ringing with finality.

“No, he will not.” There was a sudden snapping sound. Peter felt his body straighten in a conditioned response. “Go to the boys room and grab some clothes for him. He won’t be back there for a while.”

“Right away, sir,” Jarvis responded in his signature clipped tone, “ but before I take my leave. May I state one more thing?

“You may,” Tony stated in a thick, gruff tone.

“No one is at fault here, just as everyone is. This was an accident, Mr. Stark, one that could have been prevented if we all heeded Ms. Romanov’s warning and took our jobs more seriously. Locks on the doors, for example. At the same time, it could have easily _not_ been prevented. Until Peter arrived, no one has ever barged into one of those rooms except for Master Harley, but seeing as he thrives in the less than savory parts of this Empire, it was never an issue. No one, including myself, could have ever expected something like this to happen, especially for such an innocent reason.” 

Tony cleared his throat, “Mind winding down the explanation, Jarvis?”

Jarvis exhaled sharply, no doubt due to held back frustration. “Do not bear the blame alone, Mr. Stark. Everyone is at fault here; therefore, the blame lies equally on us all. We are all guilty of this crime, and as is right, we deserve to feel the change it will bring to this household.” 

“Are you ever going to call me Tony?” Peter could hear the smirk in the man’s tone.

“As I’ve stated many a time, only when you are on your deathbed will I call you that, for I wish it to be the last thing you hear out of me.” Jarvis grumbled, or his version of grumbling anyway.

Tony laughed, the sound strained and not at all his normal timber. “Because there’s nothing else you can say that will top that.”

“Indeed,” Jarvis spoke with his resumed tactfulness, “I shall take my leave and fetch a bundle of Master Peter’s clothes.”

“Take them to Pepper, I promised she could wake Peter up first thing in the morning. She’s awful miffed that I wouldn’t let her in to see him tonight.”

“Very well, sir. . . and thank you for allowing me to speak freely.”

“You never have to ask Jarvis, but as always, you’re welcome.”

There was a beat of silence. Peter’s heart pounded in his ears. _Tony’s going to come in here._ He was going to see Tony. He was really going to see him. He straightened up a little more, watching the door with unblinking eyes. Unshed tears rested on his lids, refusing to fall just yet. 

Then the door was open, and Tony stepped into the room. 

He was not the Butcher whose eyes were filled with fire and damnation, nor was he the Sheik who made Peter drool and drop to his knees. This was just a man. A tired, drained man wearing rumpled clothes that seemed so out of character for him. His eyes held shadows, bloodshot and weary. Had he gotten any sleep? He stepped into the room carrying what appeared to be a glass of water and something else obstructed by his hand. Peter straightened up once more in the bed, the surface creaking slightly with the movement, and Tony’s eyes shot to him. 

They both flinched. Peter, in fear, fully expecting the rage to appear and scald him. Tony, in surprise, clearly _not_ expecting Peter to be awake. 

“Angel,” he murmured, and Peter broke at the sound. 

“I’m so sorry,” Peter whimpered, recklessly climbing from the bed and throwing himself at Tony, circling his arms around his waist and burying his head against his chest. “I’m so sorry. I’m so sorry.”

At first, Tony didn’t move. He stood there like a statue while Peter cried in choked sobs against his chest. Tense and immoveable, like metal. Like iron. Then, ever so slowly, he placed his free hand on the back of Peter’s head, carding his fingers through Peter’s curly locks, and began shifting a few steps to the left. Peter adjusted, holding on so tightly in fear that Tony would leave if he let up. Suddenly, Tony leaned, pressing Peter’s face deeper into his chest. Peter heard a sharp sound, Tony setting the glass on the bedside table, followed by a muffled clatter he couldn’t identify. 

Then Tony wrapped his arms around Peter, and held him tightly. 

“It’s not your fault,” he whispered.

“I didn’t mean to,” Peter hiccuped, burrowing deeper into Tony’s embrace. “I swear, I didn’t mean to.”

“I know,” Tony affirmed, “I know, Angel. You’d never do anything like this. Never.”

For a few minutes, neither of them moved. Peter continued to cry, repeating his apologetic mantra - “I’m sorry, so sorry. I didn’t mean to. I promise.” - into Tony’s chest, sobbing brokenly as he did. Tony gently shushed him, murmuring soft assurances while his nails ran along his scalp and the other gently fisted the back of Peter’s night shirt. In his grief, Peter noticed how stiff Tony remained, standing taut and firm at the side of the bed while Peter quivered and twitched on his knees on the disused mattress. He couldn’t help but think back to when Clint’s idiot brother, Barney, dared to take Peter for ransom and bruised up his face. When Tony came in to check on him, to take care of him, he wrapped his arms around Peter and held him so close. He talked to Peter, assured Peter, helped Peter in ways Steve and Pepper couldn’t. 

None of which he was doing now. 

The assurances felt forced, like he was saying them without really meaning them, or he was trying to assure himself and failing. Though he was touching Peter, petting his hair and pressing Peter further against his chest, he wasn’t _holding_ him. Not like that night. The distinctions made Peter cry harder. He really messed up. He ruined everything.

He had to make this right.

He lifted his head, unable to pull back more than a few inches, to look at Tony’s expression. It was stonelike, unreadable. The sight of it almost pushed Peter back into his crying fit. Almost.

“Where are my clothes? The clothes I was wearing when I made it back?” Peter whispered, refusing to look away from Tony’s face. 

However, Tony refused to look at him. “Are you sure it’s those clothes you’re concerned for?” He asked, removing the hand carding through his curly locks to pull something out of his jacket pocket. “Or is it a pair of letters from The Punisher that’s piqued your interest?”

There they were. Both letters, both now open, held within Tony’s grasp. He still wasn’t looking at Peter, his expression inscrutable. 

Despite that, Peter nodded eagerly. “They’re a line, Tony. A line into Hell’s Kitchen. I saw an opportunity, an opening and I went for it. Just like Phil and Pepper taught me.” He took a breath, fighting to keep his voice free from the tears still falling down his cheeks. “I got it for you. To make it up to you for being a dummy. For running-”

“You weren’t a dummy,” Tony cut him off in a suddenly fiery tone. Peter flinched at the sound of it. “You did exactly what you should have done, Angel. You did the right thing running from the Butcher. Running from me when I’m . . . not right.” 

“But-but,” Peter tried, tears falling down his cheeks once more, “I didn’t mean-”

“I know, Angel,” Tony repeated, squeezing the back of his nightshirt a little tighter, leaning away to drop the letters on the bedside table. “And you’re not in trouble. Not in the slightest.”

Peter’s chin wobbled, “Then why won’t you look at me?”

Tony’s head jerked an inch towards him before a slight spasm in his neck stopped him. Peter noticed that, heart falling at the realization. Tony wouldn’t look at him. Tony didn’t want to look at him. His breath blew out of him like he was punched in the gut or fell out of a tree onto his back. His head drooped in defeat back to Tony’s chest, body crumbling in on itself. He would have fallen back to the bed if Tony hadn’t kept a firm hold on his shirt. That being said, the moment Peter collapsed against his chest Tony used his free hand to hook under Peter’s arms, maneuvering him to lay him against the headboard of the bed frame.

Peter began to feel overwhelmed by tears once more. Tony didn’t want to look at him. He didn’t want to see Peter. Why was he even in here? If he didn’t want to look at Peter, then why was he here? Why? 

Tony reached out to grab the glass of water on the table. “Here, drink up.” He brought the glass to Peter’s lips, keeping hold of it even as Peter reached out to take it. He touched Tony’s wrist, relieved he didn’t pull away from Peter’s touch, ebbing the ache in his chest. Drinking slowly, Peter focused on breathing. Scrambling his sleep addled brain to find a solution to fix this. To fix his mistake. This wasn’t the Tony he wanted, _needed_ to see. Not the Sheik, not the shell he was displaying now - though experiencing the shell because of his actions made him almost choke on the water due to an unexpected sob - no what he needed was something he should be ashamed of needing. Something that made him blush just as much as it made him want to cry for it. 

He needed _Daddy_ , but he wasn’t here right now. 

After a few more gulps of water, Tony gently pulled the glass away, eyes looking anywhere but Peter’s face. Setting the glass back on the bedside table, Tony shifted so that he sat on the bed next to Peter, but his back was to Peter. Peter let out another sob, more tears coating his cheeks and plopping onto the exposed skin of his hands. 

“I need you to tell me what happened yesterday,” Tony spoke suddenly, his tone firm and unyielding. A clear command that went without question. “From the moment you saw me in the study to the moment you came back. Tell me everything. Spare no details.”

Peter didn’t speak at first. He stared at Tony’s back with a blurred gaze, ignoring the ache in his neck from how his head drooped forward in utter defeat. Lost in his grief, in his guilt, Peter found it hard to heed Tony’s command. He needed to, though. He knew he needed to. If he didn’t, Tony would get mad. He’d see those dark, hateful eyes again if he didn’t. He had to make this right, but it was so hard when the person he wanted to make it right with was scaring him with his . . . distance. His aloofness. 

In Peter’s experience, when people pulled away, they tended to stay away. Peter didn’t want Tony to stay away, he wanted Tony to hold him tight and never let go. Wanted Tony to kiss him and ease the lonely ache taking place in his heart. Wanted to hear the wonderful cadence of Tony’s captivating voice. Wanted to feel Tony’s hands on him, and find both safety and pleasure within his embrace. He wanted Tony, he wanted his _Daddy_. 

And he wasn’t going to get either if he didn’t _fix_ it.

Peter took a breath, deep and calming, though broken and shaky. “I was in the workshop most of yesterday, you know that. Spent the time tinkering and reworking some of the old Stark models that never made it to the public. I figured out what was wrong with one of them. The releasing mechanism was getting caught on the valves and stopped the trigger from returning to its original state after firing. That’s why the gun could only fire one shot,” Peter started, surprised to see Tony nod slightly. “I switched out the valves for smaller, more pliable ones, and then tested it out on the training dummy. It moved beautifully, didn’t catch at all, and I was really happy. Proud even.”

Peter straightened up slightly, “I wanted to show you what I did, show I was able to fix something of yours all by myself, that’s why I went looking for you. I was headed up to the parlor because normally you’d be there around that time of day. If not, then Pepper or Happy could point me to you. When I was heading towards the stairs I heard you laughing and realized it was coming from the study. The door was open a little, and when I got closer you were still laughing, so I figured it was okay. I was wrong.”

Tony flinched, arms spasming and head jerking towards Peter before stopping himself once more. Peter noted those reactions, chalking them up once more to Tony not wanting to look at him - probably didn’t want to talk to him either - before continuing. “I don’t know what was going on in there. When I opened the door my eyes went straight to you. I saw red. I saw someone kneeling on the ground. I saw- I saw-” Peter paused, breathing in another calming, shaky breath, “I saw the-the Butcher. Saw how angry he was. So much h-hate in those eyes. When he r-recognized me, it only got w-worse.” Peter exhaled sharply, wiping furiously at his eyes to clear his teary vision. “I didn’t think. When that hate was looking at me, boring into me, I just dropped the gun and ran.”

Peter fidgeted with his hands, fully aware of how dangerously fast Tony tensed up. Even through the suit jacket, Peter saw how steel-like the muscles there became. The back of his neck was very much the same. “I didn’t set out to go to Hell’s Kitchen on purpose. I need you to know that.” Peter started, laying into his words and willing Tony to believe him. “The moment I started running, the only thought in my mind was _Get away. I need to get away._ I jumped onto a trolley that was passing by here and stayed on until it finally stopped. Afterwards, I ran a little bit longer and ended up at a construction site. That’s where I met Frank.”

Tony flinched again, but this time Peter elected to ignore it. “I wasn’t in any danger with him. I was just a scared kid who had no business being there. When he realized who I was, he sent me to Matt. Matt Murdock, Foggy, and Karen. They lived in a bar that was shut down right across the street from the construction site. They were all really nice, wary as they should be, but nice. Jessica Jones, a bounty hunter or something like that, came in later on. She wasn’t very happy, but it wasn’t directed at me. She was angry at the mess she walked into.” Peter smiled suddenly, “Frank’s a bear of a man, and Matt’s something else, but boy did they get their backs up when Jessica walked through that door. She’s a force to be reckoned with.”

Thinking about them did something to Peter. Something he wasn’t expecting. He felt a change as he talked about them. Before he was a blubbering mess too focused on the things he did wrong, but now he was smiling, remembering those people he only just met with a strange fondness that relieved his pain the slightest bit. Confused him too. What was it about those people that made him feel . . . stronger? Bolder? His voice wasn’t shaking anymore. It was clear as day and steady like a rock.

“There were no lies there,” Peter whispered, losing himself in his recollections. “What you see is what you get and all that jazz. There were no secrets, no manipulations, just honesty. Harsh, blunt honesty that’ll make or break you. They don’t hold back, but they don’t push either. They tell it like it is, and give you what you ask for. Maybe not always in the way one would expect, but they’ll give it all the same.” He exhaled softly, a smile growing a little more. “They’re not Devils, though I’m sure the likes of Jessica could hang with them easy. Frank too. They’re not Angels either, but Foggy comes close. Though similar, they’re not Angel or Devil. They’re more like . . . Gargoyles? I think? Dark protectors standing guard in the depths of the night, looking out for those who can’t protect themselves. Defending the little guy from the tyrants who would gleefully mistreat him. I should know. That’s what they did for me.”

Peter straightened up, shifting to a more comfortable position against the headboard. “They protected me when they didn’t have to. They put their lives on the lines for me when it was in their best interest not to. They gave up their home, allowed Harley and Bucky into their safehouse to protect me. So many things they could have done but they didn’t. They chose to help me.” Peter bit his lip, trying to stop the newest onslaught of tears. “I don’t know if I can ever repay them for that.”

The memory of Matt teaching Peter how to play the simple bassline on the piano crossed his mind, along with the banter between him and Foggy. How at ease Peter felt amid the guilt and turmoil he was drowning in. The atmosphere of that place felt so _natural_ , almost peaceful. Peter wasn’t sure if he realized it then. Realized how easy it was for him to latch onto that atmosphere and merge with it despite what he was going through at the time. 

He’s never felt anything like that before. 

When he was first introduced to life of being a Stark he was on edge all the time, jumpy and suspicious, constantly questioning the motives and intentions of those around him. Even after acclimating to the lifestyle, Peter was still suspicious. Still questioning and wondering, but he’d learned to keep those inquiries -at least the majority of them- to himself. Life as an orphan wasn’t much better. The constant dread for his -at the time- impending eighteenth birthday hovered over the open question, _what am I going to do now_? Searching and scrounging for options, coming up with plans with Ned and MJ, while saving as much as he could spare for whatever the future held for him. It was exhausting.

Those few hours he spent with Matt and the crew had to be the most at ease Peter’d been since his Uncle Ben was alive. Though he had questions, he didn’t feel suspicious. Though he wondered, he saw and understood their motives. Sure, he was on edge, but that wasn’t because of them. With them he felt . . . calm. Assured. Maybe even confident? No, that wasn’t it. He felt . . . 

He felt like an equal.

“Pepper mentioned you called,” Tony interrupted in a stern, steely voice. “Did they allow you to do that?”

Peter sniffed, “I asked if I could and they gave the okay.”

“Who?”

Peter shrugged, “All of them. Matt and Frank made sure I kept it short though.”

Tony hummed at that. “Bucky said the bar was burned down. Mind telling me about that?”

“I was on the second floor away from most of it. Tucked away out of sight and guarded by Karen, Foggy, and Jessica. I didn’t want to be part of the fight and neither did they. I heard a lot of stuff. Gunshots, screams, stuff breaking. I didn’t see any of it though.” Peter sniffled, wiping away the tears once more. “I threw some bottles over the railing, poured some water to help put out fires, but once Frank and Matt were pushed outside, Jessica got us out.”

Tony bristled. “How did you get out?”

Peter flinched in response. “Crawled through a window.”

“That how you hurt your wrist?” His hand flinched, like he aimed to point at the injured appendage but stopped before he could. 

“No,” Peter shook his head despite knowing Tony couldn’t see it. “I hurt it catching Foggy. He couldn’t hold onto the rope we used to climb down from the window, so he fell and would have hurt himself pretty badly if Karen and I hadn’t caught him.” He took a deep breath, ignoring Tony’s hum as he continued. “After that, Jessica and Foggy split off to go help Frank and Matt while Karen took me to the safehouse. On the way there we ran into Ben, then we found the rest with Bucky and Harley, and then we hunkered down until we got home.”

Peter didn’t continue, watching Tony with a wary stare. Stiff. So stiff. The tension that appeared when Peter mentioned seeing the Butcher in the study had yet to leave him. As his explanation of the previous night’s events continued, the tension only built. Built and built until Tony looked like a bomb waiting to go off. 

Yet the other man spoke with a cool, calm tone. “So, you got a line into Hell’s Kitchen for me. How?”

Peter took a deep breath, focused on keeping his voice steady. “They kept mentioning how wild Hell’s Kitchen is. How unattainable it was for you and other _outsiders_. They really leaned into the word. Possessed an _us_ versus _them_ mentality, same with the other residents of the town.” Peter shrugged. “I’m not sure how it came about, or what I was even thinking when I offered, but suddenly I mentioned the possibility of you supplying men for them to take over and handle the worst of Hell’s Kitchen. Root out Fisk’s followers since they’re the real instigators behind the violence. Then it kind of made sense. If outsiders can’t take control, then surely an insider can. Right?”

Tony hummed again, gesturing towards the letters on the bedside table. “What’s this about _you_ being their line?” 

“They want me to be their direct contact.” Peter stated simply, matter of factly. Tony flinched at that. “They trust me, and I trust them too.”

Tony exhaled sharply, a growling timber escaping him. “Do you realize what that’s going to entail?”

Peter bit his lip. “Not entirely. From the way it was described, I’d be more of the middleman between you and them. The messenger of sorts I suppose. I’m sure there’s more to it than that, though.”

Tony was silent again, fists clenched tight on top of his knees. His shoulders rose and fell with each breath he took. Peter watched forlornly, desperate to reach out and rub the tension away. Despite the urge, he kept his hands in his lap. If Tony didn’t want to look at him, he most certainly didn’t want Peter to touch him. Probably didn’t want anything to do with him. At least not right now. Peter really messed up. Tony didn’t want to be near him. _Daddy_ didn’t want to be near him. 

“Tell me more about this Hell’s Kitchen crew. What makes them so special to you?” 

Peter sniffled, “They were honest. I didn’t have to guess with them. Didn’t have to wonder about their intentions and motives. When they speak, it’s the truth. The whole truth with all its flaws and uncomfortable nature.” Peter smiled suddenly. “I could see it in their faces every time they talked to me, talked to each other. I can’t help but wonder if they even know how to lie.” 

“Everyone knows how to lie,” Tony grated, bristling with anger. “What they don’t know is how to lie _well_. That’s a skill reserved for the best at the game.”

“Like you and Natasha?” Peter spoke without thinking, immediately regretting his words as he gasped in shock. “I’m sorry - I d-didn’t mean-” 

“Yeah, Angel,” Tony interrupted, head nodding slightly as his back straightened. “Like me and the bearcat.” He tilted his head towards Peter, but his eyes stayed on the floor well away from Peter. “Speaking of the bearcat, Tasha’s not very happy about the last 24 hours. Not at you,” Tony quickly added when Peter unintentionally squeaked in fear, “but boy, this house won’t be the same once she and Clint get back from their tour. Won’t be the same before they come back.”

“What do you mean it won’t be the same?” Peter asked softly, tone meek and mouselike. He looked around the room, a terrible mixture of guilt and sorrow flooding his chest like ice running through his body. “Tony, why am I in here? Why am I not with Harley? Why am I not in _my_ room?”

Tony didn’t respond quickly. He took a very deep, very visible breath where his shoulders rose a few inches and slowly lower as he exhaled just as steadily. He was calming himself down. Peter could see that. He was preparing for something, preparing for what he had originally come here for. What was it? What was so hard for him to talk about?

“I need to tell you some things, Angel. Things that are going to be hard to accept, hard for you to hear. It’s going to feel like a punishment, and for some it certainly will be, but it’s not towards you. You are not the one getting punished here. _You_ did nothing wrong.” Tony turned towards Peter slightly, eyes lifting from the ground to glance at Peter. “You did exactly what you were supposed to do. None of what’s about to happen is a slight against you.”

Peter’s chin wobbled, both relieved and terrified Tony was finally looking at him. Relieved because his eyes were void of the rage that left Peter brainless and senseless in the worst possible ways. Terrified because they were still so distant, and pairing it with his words made Peter’s heart throb painfully against his chest. 

“What’s gonna happen?”

Tony looked back to the floor, be he didn’t turn away this time. “In light of recent events, changes are going to be made. Some are permanent, some temporary.” He took a breath, steady and sure, then gestured around the room. “Starting with the temporary changes, you’ll be staying in here with Happy. ‘ _Why Happy and not someone else like Steve or Bucky_ ’ you might be wondering. Simply put, he’s going to be your chief of security for the time being.” Tony quickly raised a hand, stopping Peter’s shocked protest in it’s chest. “It’s not permanent, Angel. Steve’s going to be helping Bucky with Harley for a little while. Tag team the Hellcat until the kid knows his place. Knows how even the tiniest and inconsequential decisions can break us and leave one of our own vulnerable. Exposed.”

“What do you mean?” Peter cried, wiping his face clear of the fresh onslaught of tears.

Tony sighed, rubbing his face in frustration. “Angel, did you think about why you were able to run off the property in the first place? Why no one came after you? Stopped you before you jumped in the trolley?”

Peter shook his head, a stray tear catching on his bottom lip. “No.”

“It’s because Harley was being a brat,” Tony stated bluntly. “You got your homework done early in the morning like the good Angel you are and earned the right to tinker in the workshop while Harley kept lazing about and refusing to do his goddamn essay. Pepper gave up and told Bucky to handle him, and then Steve got roped in because Bucky was getting fed up and was this close to belting the Cat.” He shook his head, growling to himself though Peter still flinched at the sound. “And all that time arguing over something stupid and inconsequential, Steve could have been shadowing you and keeping you safe. Kept you from running off, or at least brought you back before you got too far. Stopped you before-” he shook his head, shoulders rolling through the tension, “Before the Butcher could set his eyes on you. Before you saw me like that.”

“Tony-” Peter tried to speak, but with a sudden hand movement, he silenced Peter. “No, Angel. I know what you’re going to say. I know what you’re trying to do. I’m not having it. None of this is your fault, and the changes in progress right now are not a slight against you. They’re to help keep you safe and to prevent situations like this from happening again. Make it so that you never have to meet the Butcher at his work again. Understand?”

Peter sniffled, chin wobbling, more tears falling down his cheeks. “Yes, Tony.”

Tony sighed, shaking his head slightly. “Happy will be in charge of you until Natasha and Clint come back. Since he’s also Mrs. Stark’s Chief of Security, you will be spending most, if not all, of your time with the Angelside which is exactly what I want.” Tony growled slightly, fist clenching the tiniest bit on the bed. “Everyone on the Devilside, and Steve, will be keeping their distance for the time being. This isn’t a punishment for you, Angel, this is their punishment. Remember that.” Tony added fiercely, making Peter tremble. “Once Clint and Natasha are properly informed, Clint will take over as your chief of security which means you’ll be staying with him and the bearcat.” Tony straightened up slightly. “Now this is where some of the more permanent changes come in.”

“I thought you said-”

“Steve will be your Chief of Security again once he pulls his head out of his ass and gets his priorities straight.” Tony stated coldly, a terrible tension in his jaw. “Even so, once he does, Clint’s going to be his second. What that means is if Steve’s not with you, shadowing you like he’s supposed too, then Clint will be. When Clint’s on tour with Natasha, Bucky will take his place as his second in shadowing you, that is if he gets his priorities straight, too.” Tony grumbled, bristling more intensely. “Otherwise, Happy will fill in.”

Tony stood up abruptly, leaning towards the bedside table, grabbing the glass of water Peter forgot about along with something small Peter couldn’t identify. “Here, take these.” Tony spoke softly, sitting back down and reaching towards Peter. In his hands were small pills. Tiny white circles resting precariously on Tony’s rough, calloused hands. 

“What are those for?” Peter sniffled, gingerly taking the pills and the glass of water. He didn’t swallow them, opting to hold them until Tony explained or ordered him to do so.

“They’re aspirin. Going to help you rest easy and heal.” Tony nodded to the pills, and Peter took it as a command. He brought them to his mouth, and sipped some water, and swallowed them down. “Good, Angel,” Tony approved, urging Peter to take another few sips of water before taking the glass away and setting it aside. 

“Why is all of this happening?” Peter inquired softly, desperately trying to hide the break in his voice. “Why these changes? Why can’t I stay in my room with Harley?”

Tony glared at the ground, his back once more turned to Peter, jaw tensing painfully. “Harley fucked up, Angel. He, Bucky, and Steve all fucked up. They kicked sense to the curb, ignored their priorities, and you spent the night in Hell’s Kitchen relying on the kindness of outcasts as a result of it. They don’t deserve to be within ten feet of you and are extremely lucky I’m not letting Rhodey throw them in clink for a few nights.” He paused, taking a calming breath. “You’re in here Angel because Happy is going to do his job and protect you. Look out for you, and that’s all he’s going to do.” He rolled his shoulders. Peter heard his spine pop in several places. “You won’t find the kind of _care_ Harley and the rest of them like to provide. Happy doesn’t roll with boys. He doesn’t roll with men either. His interests lie with Karen, sometimes Pepper when he’s feeling brave, and even then he doesn’t indulge too often. Precisely why he’s Pep’s head of security, and the fact he’s damn good at his job.”

He grunted, clearing his throat. “Until I give the say so, Angel, you are off limits to everyone in this household. Everyone except Mrs. Stark and Happy, and then Natasha and Clint when they make it back. You’re in here so Happy can make sure no one comes sneaking in for a taste of you. Understand?”

“No,” Peter cried softly, “I don’t understand. I don’t understand any of this.”

“Angel,” Tony grated, attempting to keep his voice level, but Peter felt the sharpness in his tone. “I’m just trying to keep you safe.”

“Safe from what?” Peter shot back, wiping the tears away furiously. 

For the first time since he entered the room, Tony turned to face Peter fully and looked him directly in the eyes. They weren’t filled with the fiery, damning rage that sent Peter in a blind panic. It wasn’t the depleted, worn out look of a man who had been working to the bone and sleep deprived. It wasn’t the suave, charming look Peter’s grown accustomed too. It wasn’t the soft, gentle look he gave Peter when it was just the two of them basking in each other’s presence. No, it wasn’t any of that. This look was dark. Determined, intense, and fueled by something Peter couldn’t identify. Was it malice? Was it pain? Was it pleading? Peter didn’t know. All he could do was feel, and what he felt was petrified. Completely and utterly frozen with fear in his prone, vulnerable positioning on the bed. 

“From me,” Tony stated bluntly, voice deep and matching the dark stare in his eyes.

With that, Tony stood from the bed, turned away and promptly marched out of the door without another word, leaving Peter a reeling, frozen mess in his wake.


	6. Bonus! Watch The World Explode

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Preview for a certain spinoff 😏.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Let me start this off by saying/screaming THANK YOU SOOOO MUCH!!!! You have no idea how happy each and every one of you has made me after all the wonderful and insightful feedback you gifted me and the kudos you left me! 😄 Seriously, I can’t thank you enough! Especially TellMeNoAgain and Mindwiped! These wonderful and amazing authors let me play in their sand box, encouraged me to take their characters and go off in my own little world with them, and have helped me become a better writer all in the same token. This has been such a wonderful experience and I can’t seem to stop saying thank you!
> 
> So I decided to do something for you guys.
> 
> If you notice, there’s an extra chapter here, meaning I’m going to add one more thing to Rhapsody in Blue (because all of you inspired me too) before I call it and move onto other stuff. I’m not going to tell you what it’s about, but I will leave a few clues as to what it involves. 
> 
> Peter (obviously). Butcher (oh no). Pillows (wait, wha?). Tie (huh?). More ties (where’s this going?) Oil, or is it (oh my)? And finally . . . Daddy.
> 
> I wonder what that could mean 🤔. 
> 
> Thank you all again!!!
> 
> One last thing.
> 
> I have read all of your comments, and I so love them! Thank you for leaving them! I promise I will respond to them as soon as I can!

Peter Stark is many things. Smart, gentle, and resourceful when the situation calls for it. A true Angel blessing the earth with his kind heart, and warm smile. However, despite the plethora of qualities that shapes the Angel’s disposition, he’s not infallible. Though observant and vigilant, even  _ he _ can miss things sometimes. Important things, ever so vital details that can shape his future. Not just his future, but the future of the Stark Family. 

There’s no way he could have known that the  _ allies _ Karen called to warn of the impending attack, the one she made hours before the riot began, were not ordinary people. He couldn’t have known that instead of fortifying their homes and preparing to defend their own, they were out in the crowd. Blending in with the attacking hordes that aimed to take Peter’s head, and actively worked against them.

He didn’t know that two men, Luke Cage and Danny Rand, were distracting the crowds by offering up free liquor from their bar. A bar that was disguised as a real estate office. A very run down, and battered, real estate office. They offered drinks and rousing speeches that vilified The Starks while sneaking away weapons, successfully distracting a small portion of the people while the rest, now drunkenly, headed towards Nelson and Murdock.

He didn’t know two kids, Wanda and Pietro Maximoff, had stolen fancy clothes from an upscale boutique in order to dress up as him. They were a year younger than him, but they weren’t nearly as gentle and sweet. They ran through the crowds, brave and courageous as they were known to be, and caught the hordes attention. Drawing most of them away, far away, from Nelson and Murdock. A good portion went after Wanda, who went to the left side of the neighborhood towards the river where she knew the best way to escape. Another portion went after Pietro, who went to the right side of the neighborhood, right next to Luke and Danny’s bar, where he unfortunately encountered the arriving Ben Grimm, Bucky, with Johnny and Harley, by nearly evading their incoming car. 

If Pietro hadn’t been as fast as he is, they would have run him over. 

“What the fuck! Watch where you’re going you fucking putz! Get outta here!” He screamed at the shiny car, running away as he did.

He’d never know that the only reason Bucky didn’t kill Pietro was because the horde of angry, and drunken, people following him had caught up, and turned their attention on them instead. 

He’d never know how bloody the streets got throughout the night. How many people died. How many homes and businesses were damaged or destroyed. What all those people did  _ for  _ him. 

He’d never know that those people came to Claire’s when the worst of the night was over. Hunkering down in the immediate area and relaying messages to Matt, who was listening, and Frank, who was watching through the window. Informing them of the damage, how many lives were lost, and when it’d be safe for Peter to leave. They stayed up for the rest of the night, and made themselves scarce at dawn when The Starks began to emerge. 

There was so much he’d never know about. Things he would appreciate and remember for years to come if someone were to tell him. He’d think of it fondly whenever he thought about Hell’s Kitchen. Not the fear and his mistakes, but of what these strangers did to help Frank and Matt. To protect him when they didn’t even know him, or so he thought. 

Unfortunately, there are things about this night that would come to his attention. A person in particular. A person who blended with the crowd, only to kill those who got to close with swift motion of his blade. A person who aided the strangers in their quest, and beheaded those who dare interfere. A person who stayed when the others left, watching Peter Stark from the shadows with avid interest. A person who followed the Starks fancy car with great difficulty, but managed all the same as he finally arrived at the mansion. The Stark Mansion. A person who easily snuck through the mass of security the Butcher set up, and continued to watch the boy until he fainted, and was quickly taken away. 

A person who was going to change Peter Stark’s life forever.

Wearing black workman’s clothes, with his blades haphazardly sheathed by his pants, the man gawked in awe at the sight of the boy. The precious, scared boy who fainted at the sight of the Butcher. The boy who looked so tiny, so helpless in the arms of the distressed man carrying him. Happy. Stark called him Happy. Well, growled at him really.

“Get him upstairs, Happy,” the Butcher ordered, pointing towards the pearly staircase. 

The room was pretty, grand, the scene straight out of a flicker show. It was filled with people. The Wolf and the Hellcat, gazing at the Butcher with wide, almost fearful eyes. The Captain, staring down at the floor like a kicked dog. The man knows them. He’s seen them before. Where’s the Widow? Where’s Hawkeye? They were always fun to watch when the red paint started flowing. There was a posh, upscale gentlemen standing in the corner. A butler, Wade guessed. A woman stood at the top of the stairs, beckoning Happy to climb quickly. Teary eyes only on the boy. 

The Angel.

Words were quickly exchanged, loud roars Wade had trouble comprehending. At least, until the Wolf spoke up. Bravely stepping forward as the Butcher turned towards him. 

“I’ll watch Peter if you don't want Steve for it.”

The Butcher cocked an angry eyebrow. “You took Harley to Hell's Kitchen.”

The Wolf swallowed. “Johnny came in here all heated up, you really think I could have stopped him- after Pepper and that phone call-”

“You took  _ Harley _ to  _ Hell’s Kitchen _ ,” the Butcher interrupted, walking slow, purposefully towards the Wolf, “in the middle of a  _ gang fight! _ ”

“Boss,” the Wolf tried to appease, something Wade knows full well is not his strong suit. The Butcher just glared at him, taking more steps. Each one sounding through the room like glass breaking. The Wolf tried again, desperation filling his voice. “Look, I wouldn't do that with Peter, Boss, you know that-”

The Butcher cut him off with a wave of his hand. “Why you think that's some kind of defense, I don't actually know. I don't worry about Harley less than Peter, if either one is dodging bullets without me. You doubled my worry, 'stead of staying where I told you to stay and guarding who I pay you to guard. Happy. Guards. Peter. Leastways until I think the lesson's stuck and you both got your focus back where it belongs which is on my boys and their well-being instead of your feelings for your Captain, and his for his Sergeant.” He pointed at the Captain, who glanced at the Wolf with sad eyes, and then pointed back to the Wolf, so close now that his finger brushed the Wolf’s chest. 

“You think I’m stupid enough to believe you’re not going to use this opportunity to keep Steve around to look after Peter so nothing has to change? You think I’m going to just hand over Angel so you can do as you please with him after all three of you,” he gestured to the Hellcat, who flinched at the attention, “screwed the pooch and let him run off the property? An action that could have very easily resulted in his death, and so soon after his birthday too.” The Butcher paused, drawing in a deep breath. Moving another step closer. Chest to chest with the Wolf. He had to look up to meet the Wolf’s eyes, but there was no mistake on who was in control here. “Do you have any idea how close I am to calling Rhodes and giving him the grand pleasure of throwing all three of you in the clink for the night. Fuck, make it a few nights, each of you in separate cells to fend for yourself and listen to each other scream and fight your fellow inmates when they want a piece of you.”

The Wolf’s eyes widened with fear, glancing over to the Captain, his Captain, and the Hellcat. The man smiled at the sight. Only the Butcher could inspire that type of fear in the Wolf. He wished he had one of those fancy cameras so he could take a picture. Make it last forever and ever. 

The Butcher grabbed the back of the Wolf’s head, brought him in close. “If either of you want to bring Peter back into your hold, and into your bed once more, I strongly suggest you stop fucking with me, and start doing your fucking jobs. Understand? Do what I say, don’t give me anymore lip, or that’s exactly where you are going.”

The Butcher pulled away, releasing the Wolf’s head in disgust, and turned towards the open door. The door where the man was watching the whole thing. He quickly turned away, and slinked away back to the side where he managed to sneak in.

The Butcher was evil. Dark and demented. They all were. Well, not all. Not the boy. Not the Angel. The man glanced back at the mansion, clenching his jaw and thumbing the blades sheathed by his pants. 

“Don’t worry, angel baby. I’ll get you out of there. You’ll never have to see them again. Never have to feel them again. I promise.”

The man called Wade Wilson, mostly known as the murderous Deadpool, nodded to the mansion one last time before disappearing into the darkness.

(Did you really think I wasn’t going to slip Deadpool in here 😏?)

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Don’t forget, there’s another surprise chapter coming 😄. Thank you so much for reading!!! Hopefully you guys liked the preview!


	7. Into the Darkness

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Peter sleeps . . . and sleeps . . . and sleeps . . . and then makes a new friend.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> The wait is over! I'm so, so sorry! This past month has sucked so bad, and when I was able to write, I had to pair this chapter off with another one in my spinoff because it plays into one another, and it has just been a mess. Thankfully, I can finally put a rest to this work and move onto the next thing. Three guesses to what it is ;). 
> 
> Also, I want to reiterate something. Chapters 1- 5 are very Roaring Hot Centric and approved by TellMeNoAgain. Chapters 6 and 7 are very much leading into my spin off, "Hanging on the Old Barbed Wire" and will not be as Roaring Hot Centric. Stuff that happens in this chapter might not necessarily occur in Roaring Hot because I'm sure TellMeNoAgain will have an awesome and innovative way to resolve everything. That being said, a lot of the stuff Peter feels in this chapter will play a major role in what happens next. 
> 
> Anyways, I really hope you guys like the chapter and it was worth the wait! :D 
> 
> Thank you again for reading!
> 
> ***Also, slight trigger warning for those who have experience nightmares, rejection, isolation, and abandonment.***

Pop! 

Pop!

Pop!

_ Each shot rang out smoothly and succinctly. No catch. No resistance. Just bullets soaring through the air before bashing into the target leagues away from the shooter.  _

_ Peter grinned. He did it. He really did it! For days this gun has been plaguing Tony. The ‘one shot’ pistol that Tony gave up on fixing due to time constraints and Devilside business getting in the way. It still irked Tony though. He mumbled about it sometimes when Peter read at his side in the study. He wanted to figure out what was wrong with it, but he couldn’t. So, Peter decided he would give it a try.  _

_ He gave up target practice in the morning to get a head start on his duties, and eventually his homework for school, for the day so he could have time in the workshop to tinker with the pistol. An action that gifted him Harley’s signature annoyed glares when Peter stood up from his desk and handed Pepper his essay, which he made sure was neat and precise.  _

_ “Why, this is almost professional Angel.” Pepper had beamed, patting his hand. “I could see this published in a medical journal among the likes Sigmund Freud and Sir Joseph Lister. Dr. Strange will be most pleased.” _

_ Peter couldn’t help the blush that blossomed, lowering his head as a result. “Thank you Pepper.” _

_ “Go get yourself a cookie, then head on to that workshop. I know you’ve been waiting patiently to tinker with your toys. Just be careful. You know how the Devilside gets when they think you’re fooling around in there.” Pepper glanced at Harley with a rueful smile. He grumbled, dropping his pen on the still blank pages in front of him, crossing his arms over his chest, and landed his sharp gaze on Peter.  _

_ “Don’t worry Pepper,” Peter looked away from Harley, bashfully leaning down to kiss her hand. “I’ll be safe.” _

_ “Sweet Angel,” her smile grew, squeezing his fingers. “Now go on while I deal with this one. I’m afraid I might have to bring in Mr. Stark’s wolf if he chooses to continue down this path.” _

_ “Don’t go Angel,” Harley whined. Peter glanced back at his brother, steeling himself for the wide, puppy eyes. “Stay and help me finish.” _

_ “He will do nothing of the sort,” Pepper spoke in a sharp tone before Peter had the chance. “Go on Angel before _ this one _ gets you into trouble. Go on.” _

_ Peter shrugged. “Sorry Hellcat. Goodbye Pepper.” _

_ He left them with a wave, and a lingering glance to Harley’s increasingly sullen, agitated form. He had felt bad, but Peter had a mission today. He was going to fix the ‘one shot’ pistol if it’s the last thing he does. He can’t be worried about Harley or anyone else. He has a gun to fix and a Tony to make proud.  _

_ And with the three shots on the target, all Peter has to do is show Tony his good work.  _

_ Peter was almost skipping with joy. So excited and eager, racing to the mansion from the target area, he didn’t take into account some key factors that, had he been significantly calmer, he normally wouldn’t have missed. Though the door was slightly ajar, it was still technically closed, meaning Tony was doing Devilside business and should NOT be interrupted by anyone, especially those from the Angelside. There was laughter, but it wasn’t Tony’s laughter. It was darker, sickening, the sing song laughter of the Butcher. There was no one to be seen on the bottom floor, which meant something quite serious and unavoidable. Something Peter’s never supposed to know about.  _

_ Peter didn’t realize any of this though. When he entered the mansion, his home, all he saw was the door slightly ajar, which meant it was open and he could go inside. All he heard was laughter, Tony’s laughter, which meant he was in there and he could go see him. Peter didn’t take note of the other possible meanings. He just grinned, and raced to open the door further.  _

_ In the next moment, time seemed to both slow and quicken.  _

_ After opening the door, a big grin on his face, Peter saw red. Red. So much red. The grin slid off his face. His breath left his lungs. The gun suddenly became heavy in his hands. There was a hunched over form. A person. Their back was facing him. There was another person. A person who  _ was  _ facing him. Nice, fancy clothes. There was red on them too. Red on their hands. On their face. The gun dropped from Peter’s hand. Eyes bulging from his skull. It’s Tony. No. Not Tony. Not Tony at all. _

_ It’s the Butcher. _

_ He was angry. So angry. Peter was frozen. He didn’t know what to do. He’s not supposed to be seeing this. The Devilside work. Not supposed to see the Butcher. The Butcher- The Butcher’s not supposed to be seeing _ him.  _ He is though. He’s seeing Peter, and he’s furious. He sees Peter. He sees- _

_ Five things happened simultaneously.  _

_ First. Tony’s- no. Not Tony. The Butcher’s hands clenched. Knuckles going white amid the red painting them. _

_ Second. The Butcher growled. Growled like an animal. No. Like a monster. No. Like a demon. Like a Devil.  _

_ Third. The Butcher’s eyes changed. The anger remained, but something shifted. Recognition. He recognized Peter.  _

_ Fourth. The Butcher kicked aside the hunched over form, moving to close in on Peter.  _

_ Fifth. Peter turned and ran. The Butcher was coming for him. He’s going to hurt Peter. Maybe even kill him. He has to run. Has to escape. _

_ But how? _

_ Peter was suddenly faced with an impossible choice. Two ways he could go to evade the Butcher. To the left were the doors he just entered through. The doors that led outside into the wide, open space. It’d be easier to run, maybe even escape, but it’d also be easier for the Butcher to catch up to him. Grab him. Pull him back into his red embrace and do- _

No, don’t think about that. _ He thought to himself. He glanced at the right. It led deeper into the mansion. Harder to run, but he’ll be able to hide. Which way was better? Safer? Running in the open, or hiding in the dark? _

_ Behind him, The Butcher shouted.  _ “PETER! _ ” _

_ That made his choice.  _

_ Just as he felt the advance on him, Peter jolted towards the left, running into the wide open space.  _

~ ~ ~ ~ ~

“What’s wrong with him Happy? Is he going to be alright?” A soft, womanly voice sounded above him. Peter knew that voice, but he couldn’t place it. Everything felt so wrong. He was sweating, dripping with it. Heavy. His body was so, so heavy. He couldn’t move it. Everything hurt. Everything was so  _ hot _ , and their voices were so  _ loud _ . He tried to tell them to stop talking, but his lips wouldn’t move. Nothing would move. Not even his hands. All he could do was listen. Listen to the loud,  _ loud _ voices above him.

“I’m not sure Pepper,” a man’s voice answered. “I thought it was just another nightmare, that’s why I sent for you, but now I’m thinking it might be something more.”

“Should we send for the Doctor?”

“Can’t, Bruce isn’t . . . himself. He’s not . . . you know,  _ right _ .”

“Of course, you don’t need to explain. I understand.”

“I’m sorry Pepper, but we’ll have to wait ‘til morning before he can help.”

“Of course,” the woman dissuaded. “Perhaps Bucky can-”

“Devils aren’t allowed up here,” the man interrupted in a firm tone. “Tony’s orders.”

“Maybe Steve-”

“Steve’s not allowed either. Until the Widow and her Hawk are back, it’s just us three, with Jarvis here checking in, and having a grand old time in your parlor. Well, bedtime excluded for you of course. Then it’s just me and Pete getting cozy in my room.”

“Mr. Stark and I haven’t shared a bed since Angel came back to us, and if this foolishness continues much longer then I have a mind to ban him from it permanently.” The woman scoffed, flustered. “Karen? Can she provide some aid?”

“She’s not a doctor, she’s a maid. The best she can do is clean up his sheets and fetch him clothes.”

“Miss Friday? Ms. Lewis, Dr. Banner’s aide?”

“I’m afraid the same problem goes for Miss Friday as it is with Ms. Karen. She’s a cook, not a medical woman. Ms. Lewis only ever comes when Dr. Banner is called upon and won’t come without his consent, which she won’t get until he’s himself once more.” Another voice cut in. A prompt, stern voice that Peter couldn’t pinpoint in his haze. “I wish I could provide assistance, but I too am not a man of medicine, Mrs. Stark. I am merely a butler.”

“Then get Mr. Stark here to see his Angel suffering, and perhaps he’ll reconsider-”

“I’m sorry Pepper,” the first man interrupted her once more. “No devils are allowed up here, and Tony’s not  _ Tony  _ right now. He won’t dare to enter this room, much less take a step on this floor, until he’s balanced. You know that. We all know that.”

“Then we’re left with nothing but to watch Angel suffer? Suffer through this unknown malady without lifting a finger to help him?”

“Of course not,” the second man answered in an abrupt tone.

“So who can help him? Who would be allowed or bold enough to march past the Butcher and his Devils to help Peter?”

Something struck Peter’s mind in that moment. Shooting through the daze, the pain, the heat that consumed him. Struck through his mind and found something important. A memory. A fresh memory. He knew someone who could help. He knows multiple people who can help.

~ ~ ~ ~ ~ 

_ Boom! _

_ Peter gasped, eyes taking in the room around him. It was the bar. Matt and Foggy’s law firm. It was here. The tables, the piano in the corner, the fresh smell of sawdust, and even the dirty glasses. It was all here. All except- _

_ Boom! _

_ Peter looked through the windows, fear spiking through his chest. Feet backing away and carrying him towards the stairs. There were figures outside. Dark figures with glowing red eyes that beat on the glass with fisted hands.  _

_ Boom! _

_ “There he is!” A horrible, taunting voice filled Peter’s mind. “The Stark Bitch! Get him!” _

_ The windows shattered. Shouts and screams escalating as the dark figures barged into the place in droves. Peter yelped, turning to run up the stairs and find safety only to find he couldn’t move. His feet sunk into the ground. Trapping him in place. The dark figures cackle with glee. Glowing eyes flickering like sparklers on the fourth of July. Peter fought to catch his breath, but his chest seized up. He tried to move his feet once more, but he was stuck. He was stuck, trapped, and the dark figures were upon him.  _

_ “Say goodnight Prince Stark,” a cruel, terrible voice growled.  _

_ Peter watched in horror as a clawed hand was raised towards the ceiling, and then suddenly swiped down towards his face. A scream was caught in his throat. _

_ “NO!” Came a shout, a deep and guttural scream that certainly didn’t come from Peter. With a wide eyed look, he turned his head just in time to see a growling, terrifying black bear charging down the dark figures. Big, brown eyes intense, gargantuan mouth snarling and bloody teeth bared as he shot in front of Peter, knocking the figures far away from him with swipes from his heavy paws. He roared at the figures, standing in front of Peter protectively. _

_ There was a hand on Peter’s shoulder, and suddenly he could move. His feet were no longer encased. He was free! He was going to be okay! He turned to see his savior. _

_ Matt. _

_ “Let’s go Little Prince,” he pulled on Peter’s shoulder, “let’s get you home while Frank holds them off.” _

_ Peter went willingly, excitedly. He felt a relieved smile appear on his face, and a weight lift off his chest. Matt’s here. The bear who Peter realized is Frank was here. He was safe. He’s alright.  _

_ Boom! _

_ The back door suddenly broke down, and more dark figures crashed through. Gnashing their teeth howling like rabid animals as they piled on top of each other, trying to get to Peter. _

_ “Go upstairs!” Matt shouted, pushing Peter towards the stairs. “I’ll hold them off!” _

_ Peter almost fell to the ground from the sudden force. He would have fallen had it not been for the hands that suddenly shot out to catch him. He looked up, grinning at the sight of Jessica Jones.  _

_ “C’mon kid! We need to get to Claire’s!” _

_ Claire.  _

_ Peter remembers. She’s the one they ran to. Her house is a sanctuary, but why? She’s . . . she’s a nurse. The only nurse in the neighborhood. She . . . she helps people, takes care of them when they can’t go anywhere else. She’s the closest thing to a hospital Hell’s Kitchen has. That’s why her house is a sanctuary! That’s why no one dared to attack it! He’s safe there! He’ll be safe with her! _

_ “Run kid! Run!” Jessica shouted, shoving him up the stairs.  _

_ Peter glanced behind him. Frank, or bear Frank, was clawing away the horde as best as he could. Matt disappeared, Peter couldn’t see him, but he heard him. Heard his grunts, heard his curses, just heard him. Jessica had a poker and swung it with wild abandon.  _

_ “Fucking run kid! Run!” She shouted again, and this time Peter did.  _

_ He charged up the steps, ran through the second floor, and kept running when the floor became the street. He was outside, the dark figures spotted him, but he didn’t stop. No. He’s not stopping again, not for anyone. He has to get to Claire. She can help him. She’s a nurse, a sanctuary, and she’ll provide him safety. She’s a nurse, she can help. Claire can help him. Claire can do it. _

_ Claire can help him.  _

_ She’s a nurse, a sanctuary.  _

_ She can keep him safe.  _

_ She can help him.  _

_ Claire’s a nurse, she can help him.  _

~ ~ ~ ~ ~

“Kid,” a calm voice called to him. “Kid?”

Peter groaned, trying to turn away from the voice. It was so loud, and his head hurt even worse now. He felt so wet, was he in the tub? No, he wasn’t wet, he was sticky. Was he still sweating? His face felt so hot.

“Peter, I need you to open your eyes for me. I need you to talk to me. Can you do that?”

Peter kept turning away, or tried to. There was a heavy weight on him. Multiple heavy weights that kept him still. One on his chest, another on his shoulder, his forehead, and even his right wrist. What’s going on? Why did everything feel so . . . wrong?

“Angel?” Another voice sounded through his mind. A familiar voice. A woman’s voice. “Darling, you need to speak up. Alright? You need to answer the nurse’s questions.”

Nurse?

“Peter,” the calm voice spoke again. “My name is Claire Temple. I’m the nurse who attended Frank Castle and Matt Murdock when you spent the night at my house last week. Do you remember me?”

Peter’s eyes shot open. The dream. He was just thinking about Claire. About Matt and Frank and Jessica. Were they all here? Was he back in Hell’s Kitchen? What’s going on?

He was in a familiar, yet unfamiliar room. Familiar because it was the room he last woke up in, unfamiliar because it wasn’t  _ his  _ room. It was someone else’s. Happy’s. He didn’t stay focused on it. All his attention, what little there was in his daze, settled on the warm figure sitting next to him on the bed, hovering over him in a protective manner. He noted the hazy figures who also hovered around his bed, but he didn’t pay them any mind.

It was her. It was Claire. She looked much the same as the last time he saw her. Only difference was her dark hair flowed freely and passed her shoulders in Hell’s Kitchen, while here it was tied back in an elegant bun. Did he summon her through his dream? Like a wizard from old stories summoning their familiar? Is  _ he _ a wizard? If so, Peter thought he wasn’t very good at it. If he was, he would have summoned Tony. Used his magic to erase his latest mistake and bury himself in Tony’s warm embrace. Use it to keep his Daddy close and never let him go again-

Wait a minute. Did she say last week?

“Peter?” She asked once more, brow crinkling in concern. 

He blinked, disbelief momentarily breaking through his heated daze. “L-Last w-week?”

Claire tilted her head. “What was that, kid?”

“L-Last w-week?” He repeated, blatantly ignoring how scratchy and unrecognizable his voice sounded. “W-What do y-you m-mean last w-week?”

Now Claire blinked, expression momentarily blank before recognition darkened it. She sighed, adjusting her hovering position above him. “Kid, you’ve been in and out of sleep for a whole week. Almost dead to the world. When you are awake, your bodyguard here said you’ve been thrashing about and screaming, trying to fight things that aren’t there. Lost in a daze, confused as can be, lethargic, and just last night you came down with a fever and started asking for me.”

“I-I did?” Peter mumbled numbly, chest heavy and air scratching his dry throat with each breath. “Why are you here?

Claire glanced to her left, but Peter didn’t follow. Choosing to focus on her instead. Despite the shock, his eyelids were drooping. Something was pulling him back. He didn’t know what, but he was scared by it. Scared because it was winning. Scared because he wanted it to win. It was so bright in here, and he felt so heavy. So sweaty. He wants to go back to sleep. Back to Matt and Frank protecting him. Back to Hell’s Kitchen and the shifted memories from his brief time there. 

Anything but this grey, too bright room that tore a hole through his heart. 

“You asked for me. Kept saying I could help, that I was a nurse who can protect you, really nice compliments if I do say so myself.” Claire shrugged, reaching a smooth hand up to place on his forehead. The crease between her brows became more pronounced. “The reason me and my assistant were allowed up here is because even though Dr. Banner is out of sorts, he vouched for me and helped Mr. Jarvis convince The Butcher that I’m trustworthy enough to care for you. At least until the Doctor is back to himself. Until then-”

But Peter didn’t hear the rest of it. His mind was caught on one word. Butcher. The Butcher allowed Claire up here, not Tony. Not Daddy. Tony’s still gone. Daddy’s still gone. 

And that was enough to send Peter back into the darkness.

~ ~ ~ ~ ~

_ Through the darkness, Peter found comfort. Warm, soothing comfort that cocooned him with it’s gentle embrace and reassured him. Everything’s okay now. All will be well. Peter sighed in the relief it brought, a small smile appearing as he found himself burrowing deeper into its embrace. All is okay. All is well. _

_ “Oh, my careless love,” crooned a singsong voice from above Peter. “You really know how to treat a man right.” _

_ Peter hummed contentedly, his smile growing at the sound. _

_ “Such an Angel. So sweet. So docile. So . . . so . . . mine.”  _

_ A warm weight appeared on Peter’s chest. A hand. It was tough, scratchy, and hot against his skin. The pads of the fingers trailed down his chest, tracing a line from his sternum, to his belly button, to his- _

_ Peter gasped, body flinching at the surprise, but not enough to pull away. No, not pull away. He moved closer. The rough hand gripped his member with a steady grasp, and held it firm. It felt so nice, so good to be held like this. To be touched like this again. It feels like it’s been years since he was with anyone like this. Since Steve took him gently in his bed, since Bucky consumed him after their bath together, since Harley bent him over the desk in the study and took him with wild abandon. Took him rough and deep while Tony- _

_ “So perfect,” the singsong voice crooned. “So pure.” _

_ The hand started molding around Peter’s member. Rubbing and pulling just the way Peter liked it. Peter let out a moan, stretching out his back and shifting his hips deeper into the wonderful hand. There was a soft chuckle, then another warm weight appeared. Another hand grasping Peter’s hip and pressing him down, stopping him subtly thrusting into the other hand’s grip. Peter whimpered at that which earned another chuckle. _

_ “So needy, and greedy. I wonder whose fault that is?” _

Harley _ , Peter thought to himself. _

_ “Doesn’t matter,” the singsong voice answered his own question. “I like you like this. My perfect little Angel all spread out, trussed up like the gift you are, ready and waiting for me to do all sorts of things to you. Isn’t that right?” _

_ Peter nodded vigorously. If it feels like this, he’ll do anything. Just like Bucky always said. And Steve. And Harley. And Tony. _

_ Tony. _

_ “Daddy?” Peter whispered. “Daddy, is that you?” _

_ “Oh no, Angel.” The singsong voice answered. “Daddy’s not here, you made sure of that when you ran off to play with your  _ Defenders _. He’s gone, baby. Gone and off to a place where you’ll never find him. Don’t you worry though, I’ll take good care of you.” _

_ Peter’s eyes shot open, but it didn’t make a difference. It was black. All he could see was black. The darkness that warmed and comforted Peter not even a minute ago suddenly chilled him to the bone. Left him feeling exposed and trapped. He was suddenly aware that he wasn’t wearing any clothes. He was bare. Bare to the darkness. Bare to the singsong voice.  _

_ To the- _

_ “W-Where’s Tony?”  _

_ “He’s gone baby, you drove him off. Forced him away and left you to me.” The grip on Peter’s member tightened, the pull rough and almost painful. “Hmm, I’ve been waiting for a piece of this. Finally getting a slice of your angel cake.” _

_ Oh God. No, no, no, no, no, no. It’s him. It’s the Butcher. Peter tried to pull away, whimpering from the harsh treatment him, those rough hands running up and down his length with no care, no gentleness. Just harshness. Cruelty. _

_ The Butcher laughed. “You’re not getting away from me, Angel. What’s Tony’s is mine, and you’re certainly mine. I don’t care if he doesn’t want you to see me, or feel me-“ he tugged hard at Peter’s member, hand so big it swallowed his whole length. “He knows the score, and so will you.” _

_ Normally, Peter would know better than to keep retreating, but this isn’t normal. This is a dream. A nightmare unfolding before his frozen form. A nightmare starring the man, the  _ thing _ he was never supposed to meet. Never. He’s not supposed to know him, so Peter attempted the only thing he could do. The thing that got him into the whole mess in the first place. _

_ Run. _

_ Only to realize he couldn’t. _

_ As he tried to sit up, using his arms to pull himself out of the Butcher’s grip, he was met by a tough and scratchy resistance at each of his wrists. The same type of resistance caught at his ankles as well. He pushed against it, pulled and scrambled, but it was no use. He was stuck. Trapped in the darkness and at the mercy of the Butcher. He had one trick up his sleeve, one thing he could do to wake him from this terrible occurrence. _

_ Scream. Scream his lungs out. Scream until his heart burst. Scream until he was woken from this dream, this nightmare of awful proportions, and free himself from this terrible weight growing in his chest. _

_ It was not to be. _

_ The moment he opened his mouth, preparing to scream with all his might, something wooly and soft was shoved into his mouth. A sock, Peter guessed, but he truly had no idea. He couldn’t see anything. Only feel what was happening to him. Only hear the Butcher’s cackles.  _

_ “Oh Angel,” he tsked. “As if I’d let you go that easy. No baby, you’re in for the long haul. You’re stuck with me, and there’s nothing you can do about it.” A warm sensation appeared between his thighs. Skin on skin contact. Shoulders? Peter didn’t know, he was too busy trying to force the obstruction out of his mouth. “I’m going to mark you up, Angel. Sink my teeth into your skin, watch the marks color that milky goodness black and blue. I’m going to suck this perfect, clean shaven pecker until it’s red and puckered, raw and sensitive to the lightest of touches. I’m going to sink into this hole,” his fingers touched Peter’s entrance, making him gasp from the intrusion, “and I’ll make it my home. Pound you ‘til you’re a bloody, whimpering mess. Oh I do love your little sounds. Your wordless pleas for reprieve. It’s enough to make any man dizzy with lust. But devils like me? Oh, for a pure thing like you, it’s intoxicating. Tony says you’re the best gift he ever got. Well Angel, I’m gonna second that sentiment.” _

_ Hot breath suddenly appeared next to his dick. Peter’s breath picked up, leaving him a panicking mess. It felt like he was running again. Running for his life, running from a devil, running towards safety. He wasn’t running though. He was trapped. Trapped, strapped, and caught like a fish in a net. He’s done. There’s nowhere to run. Nowhere to go. _

**The angels, not so happy in heaven**

**Went envying her and me-**

_ He struggled to breathe around the makeshift gag while the Butcher continued to laugh. “Finally, some sweet nectar after years of gunpowder and whiskey. Such a change. Such a prize. Such a long, long wait.” A wet heat was at Peter’s slit, a tongue flick out to lick his tip. “No more waiting, and no more hiding. You’re mine now Angel. No one’s going to save you now. _

**But our love it was stronger by far than the love**

**Of those who were older than we**

_ Who’s talking? Who is that?  _

_ The tongue flicked out at his tip. Both hands now on his hips, holding him in place. _

_ “Finally,” whispered the Butcher in an almost reverent tone.  _

_ No, Peter decided. It’s not time. This is a nightmare. A nightmare of his own creation and he will wake up. The Butcher isn’t really here, if he was than Tony would have stopped him. Daddy would have stepped in and protected him from the Devil in charge. Daddy would protect him, but he isn’t here. _

_ So now Peter must protect himself. _

**And neither the Angels in heaven above**

**Not the Demons down under the sea**

_ I’m an angel,he thought to himself . Not a street rat or a boy shouting the papers anymore. I’m an angel of the Stark Family, and I’m going to escape. _

_ Peter wasn’t sure where this ferocity came from. This sudden and unexpected surge of bravery. All he knew was that he couldn’t do it. All the times Bucky or Steve or Harley or even Tony said he’d get to a point where he’d do anything for them, well now he’s gotten to a point where he’ll do anything for himself. He’s not staying here any longer. He doesn’t want this. He wants to go home. He wants to find Tony, find his family, find the voice that’s pulling him from this terrible dream.  _

_ And just as the Butcher cackles in his singsong voice one last time, Peter opens his eyes. _

~ ~ ~ ~ ~

_ For the moon never beams, without bringing me dreams _

_ Of the beautiful Annabel Lee; _

_ And the stars never rise, but I feel the bright eyes _

_ Of the beautiful Annabel Lee; _

A soft, lilting voice read the passage at an almost lyrical pace. Peter didn’t recognize the voice, but he couldn’t bring himself to care. The voice, a woman’s voice, brought him from the Butcher’s lustful and painful grasp. It brought Peter from his nightmare and back to the world of the living, pulling him from the land of tormented dreams. It wasn’t solely her voice that rescued him, it was the poem she was reading. “Annabel Lee” by Edgar Allen Poe. Peter knows that poem. He’s mesmerized that poem. 

It’s the poem Uncle Ben used to read to him at bedtime. He and Aunt May both. It’s been so long since he’s heard it uttered that Peter had forgotten it entirely. How could he though? How could he forget Ben and May reading this to him?

It’s been so, so long.

With what little strength he could find, Peter forced his eyes open and settled them on a mysterious, yet beautiful figure. 

The woman sat on the edge of Peter’s bed, one of the books from the Library nestled carefully in her hands, and continued reading the rest of the forgotten poem. She was small and slight, auburn hair tied back in a braided bun that was unkempt and out of sorts. Loose strands framing her face amid the beautiful beige, floral emblazoned scarf wrapped around her head, at least from what Peter could see from the angle in which she was sitting. Her back was mostly to him, but he could see the right side of her face. Saw the slight curve of her jaw, the high cheekbones, and her smooth skin almost glowing in the dim light from the gas lantern. She wore a long green dress adorned with the same floral design as the scarf tied around her head, a black belt synched at her hips. A matching black shawl slung loosely across her arms, falling well passed her back without any acknowledgement from her. Her knuckles seemed bruised and discolored, but otherwise appeared just as gentle as the rest of her. Almost soft. Just like her voice.

The voice that finished the poem with ease as she closed the book, pursing her lips. She hummed to herself, eyes flitting across the room as she gingerly stood to her feet. She walked with a lithe grace Peter didn’t expect, but was not surprised to see. Maybe it was the way she held herself, back straight and proper like Pepper at dinner time? He wasn’t sure. She moved towards a table, and on it were a plethora of books that made Peter smile. His favorites. The Agatha Christie books he liked to gander at once or twice a week at least. Works by Sir Arthur Conan Doyle starring his famous detective, Sherlock Holmes. The book on Helen Keller he just finished not so long ago. The Wonderful Wizard of Oz by Frank Baum. The Jungle by Upton Sinclair. The Call of the Wild by Jack London. There was also-

“ _ The world is full of obvious things which nobody by any chance ever observes _ ,” she whispered, staring at the book she just picked up with a small smile. “It’s been awhile since I’ve read this one.”

The Hounds of Baskerville. It’s been awhile since he’s read it too.

“ _ There’s a light in a woman’s eyes that speaks louder than words _ ,” Peter spoke gently, not wanting to startle her but desperately wanting to speak. To talk to her.

He didn’t startle her. In fact,  _ she _ startled him. Piercing eyes shot up from the cover of the book and landed on him so quickly, Peter flinched. They were entrancing. Like Pepper’s diamonds plucked from her jewelry box and placed with the utmost care into each iris. 

“My apologies. I didn’t mean to scare you.” Her smile grew, an apologetic look taking over her expression. “This must be one of your favorites. It’s well worn.”

“It is, though if I had to choose between Sir Arthur Conan Doyle and Agatha Christie, I’d choose the latter. She writes in a way that makes me lose the time of day, and myself in the pages.” Peter answered softly, trying not to cringe at the raspiness of his voice. He cleared his throat, hoping to ease the guttural sound before continuing. “Who are you?”

She didn’t answer immediately, those diamond eyes narrowing slightly as she addressed him. “I’m Claire’s acting assistant. I helped her while she tended to you last night. She’ll be happy to know you’re finally coherent. Means the fever and whatever else was ailing you is finally gone.”

Fever? Peter has trouble recalling the event. “What happened to me?” 

“We’re not sure,” Wanda shifted her stance, thumb caressing the cover of the book in her hands. “We know it had to with your stint in Hell’s Kitchen, and potentially what happened when you got home. Stress and feeling overwhelmed can do a lot to a body equivalent to a disease or other ailments. Most don’t realize or elect to ignore such maladies that aren’t cured by medicine, but we don’t. Once we narrowed down possible factors that caused your sudden sickness, we were better able to help you.”

“How?” Peter implored, voice sounding clearer the more he used it. “How did you help me?”

“Claire provided you with fluids, iced down your body to force the fever away despite Mrs. Stark’s worries, and then I read some passages from your books. When my brother has nightmares, I sing songs from our youth to calm him. The familiarity helps settle him, and I thought reading a few passages from your favorite books would help do the same. The Lady of the house was reading to you earlier, but I took over when she fell asleep.” She bit her lip, moving a step towards him. “I hope that’s alright with you? Mrs. Stark gave her permission when she realized it was helping. I wasn’t reading for my sake, I promise.”

“Yes,” Peter nodding, pushing his body up to a sitting position. “It’s perfectly fine, and it did help me. Thank you.”

The woman blinked, tilting her head slightly to the left. “Nightmare?”

Peter stared at her, and she stared back at him. “Yes. H-How did you know?”

“My brother has them a lot,” she answered softly. “I know the look.”

Peter nodded, finding himself getting lost in her diamond eyes. “I’m sorry.”

“No,  _ I’m _ sorry. I shouldn’t have mentioned that.” She backed away slightly, moving to turn towards the exit.

“I’m glad you did though,” he quickly interrupted. Stopping her in her tracks. “Really, I am.”

She nodded, but didn’t speak. He wanted her to speak though. Her voice was lilting and calming, foreign yet so familiar. Lulling him into a deep trance, just as her eyes did. He shifted a bit more in his bed, unsurprised to see him wearing a different set of clothes than he last recalled. A set of blue silk pajamas with the stark emblem stitched onto the front pocket that were tailor made just for him. He felt the urge to take them off, not wanting that silk on his skin after his unnerving dream, but he ignored the urge. He won’t waste time thinking about it, he wanted to talk to her. To this mysterious woman with diamond eyes.

“What’s your favorite book? If I may ask?”

She blinked, and then laughed. Revealing a smile so bright and warm, Peter thought he might melt. “If I had to be honest, I’d say this.” She gestured to Hound of Baskerville, the book in her hand. “I’m not sure why, but it’s the only story that keeps me coming back to read it again and again. Each time I find new clues and cultivate new theories even though I already know the ending. The final verdict and such. There’s always more to learn, and Mr. Holmes here isn’t afraid to express that belief.”

Peter grinned, reveling in her smile. “What are your thoughts on Agatha Christie?”

“Interesting, but not as captivating. To be fair, I’m rather partial to Holmes' peculiar methods over Hercule Poirot’s inquisitive pursuits.” She shrugged, eyeing Peter carefully. “ _ There is nothing more stimulating than a case where everything goes against you _ .”

Peter chuckled softly. “ _ It is not my intention to be fulsome, but I confess that I covet your skull.” _

The women giggled, smile broadening and her expression turning contemplative. “ _ A malformation of the grey cells may coincide quite easily with the face of a Madonna _ .”

“Murder on the Links,” Peter proudly proclaimed. “Good choice.”

She shrugged, “can’t take all the credit. Mrs. Stark just read a passage from that book before she went to bed.” Her smile fell suddenly, blinking twice, before she backed away. “I’m sorry. I have to let Claire know you’re awake now.”

“W-W-Wait,” Peter stuttered, meekly reaching out a hand as she turned to place the book back on the table. “D-Do you have to go now?”

“Yes,” she answered quickly. “The Butcher might have acquiesced to our presence, but it won’t last much longer. The Doctor is sure to be back in working order today, and he won’t waste any time to come to your aid once he hears you’re awake.”

“Can’t you stay though?” Peter pleaded slightly. “Just wait another minute? I . . . I don’t want to be alone. Not with-not with  _ them _ . Not without . . .  _ him _ .”

The woman cocked her head slightly once more, and Peter suddenly felt naked. Exposed. Her diamond eyes glided across his face with a studious gleam that made him tremble beneath it. She wasn’t just seeing him, she was observing him. Studying him. He wondered if this is what it’s like to be under the gaze of Sherlock Holmes or Hercule Poirot. It was different from Natasha’s piercing gaze that pulled him apart with each shift of her green eyes. Similar to Phil’s all knowing gaze that just seemed to know your life story with only a single glance. It was strange, yet familiar. Most of all, he didn’t seem scared by it. No, not scared, he was exhilarated. Excited. Relieved.

She was really looking at him, wanting to look at him, and that affected him more than he cared to admit.

“He wants you, Peter.” She stated boldly. “He truly does.”

His chin trembled. “I made him leave.”

He shouldn’t be talking about this, much less to a stranger. He knows better, he  _ is _ better, but he can’t hold it in anymore. He just can’t. If he does, he fears the darkness will take him once more. Take him back to the Butchers embrace, and keep him locked away forever. How did she know though? How did she guess this? Was it all over his face? Was he that transparent?

“He didn’t leave, he’s right below us. At the foot of the stairs last time I checked. Watching Claire and I race up here to check on you.”

“I did this though,” Peter bit his bottom lip, trying to keep the ever present tears at bay. “I pushed him away. That’s what he said.”

“Who said that? Who told you that?”

He sniffled pathetically. “The Butcher.”

“When?” The woman moved towards the bed with the same lithe grace Peter noticed earlier. Each step carefully placed and making no sound. “Was that your nightmare?”

Peter nodded. “The one you woke me from.”

“And I’d do it again,” she confirmed in a soft voice. “Peter, you didn’t push him away. To be honest, _ he’s  _ the one pushing  _ you _ away.”

“Because I failed him. I ran from him. I made so many mistakes, and now he’s gone-”

“He’s not pushing you away because he doesn’t want you,” Wanda interrupted, “it’s because he does. He wants you so badly he’s allowed strangers, people from a shithole of a neighborhood he’s failed to take over twice, inside of his home in order to care for you in place of those he once trusted. To nurse you back to health so that you can be whole, be alive and safe as can be while he’s incapable of providing such a need. He wants you Peter. If he didn’t, you’d be dead or back in the streets without so much as the shirt on your back to protect you from the rain.” Wanda explained bluntly, almost harshly with the sudden intensity in her tone. “I know it’s hard to see that, but in time you will. Until then, don’t let this absence eat you. Don’t let it taint you. You’re not alone, Peter Stark. Your name proves that, and so have your actions in Hell’s Kitchen.”

“What do you know about all that?” Peter mumbled, turning his wet gaze onto those diamond eyes (as if he could look away from them). “How do you know any of this?”

“Many see but don’t observe, and right now there’s much to observe with Tony Stark.” She stated after a moment of hesitation. “I’ve only heard stories of him. The great Sheik who prims and dances among society, and the Butcher who stalks the alleys and laughs among the screams he creates. I’ve heard he’s a man who takes what he wants, and keeps it for all time. I’ve heard many things, gossip mostly but also facts. Facts that dictate the kind of man I expected him to be. The man I saw, however, was neither Sheik or Butcher. He was just a man. An angry, hurting man who looks at the stairs with such pain while holding onto a pair of letters with the utmost care. Letters I assume came from you.”

“Why would you assume that?”

“Because he barked and yelled at everyone he saw, treated his possessions like garbage, pushed around his workers and even his family, flinched at every sound like he’s ready to fight at a moments notice, and because  _ you  _ just now flinched when I mentioned them which means the letters do indeed belong to you. With that in mind, and the care in which Tony held them, it shows at the very least that he cares. At most, he wants you but won’t dare to go to you.”

Wearing a somber expression, she turned on her heel and headed towards the main door, reaching it with only a few steps. He wanted to call to her, stop her and plead with her to stay. He didn’t want to be alone. Please don’t leave him alone. Then her hand was on the knob, and she turned back slightly to address him one last time. “Be strong, Peter Stark. All will be well in time.”

She turned the knob, opened the door carefully, and moved to leave.

“You didn’t tell me your name.” Peter found himself asking, surprising himself with how loud his question came. 

She didn’t appear offended, nor surprised. She smirked once again, and gave him a little curtsy. “My name is Wanda, and I’m a Defender of Hell’s Kitchen.”

Leaving him stunned and breathless, Wanda turned once more and left Peter’s sight. 

The next moment, after staring thoughtlessly at the place where he last saw her, Pepper appeared in a huff with Happy following close behind her. Tears streaking down her beautiful face as she almost charged towards Peter’s bed. “Oh Angel!”

She pulled into a tight, warm embrace. A hug that reminded Peter so much of Aunt May’s when he was little. He burrowed deeper into that warmth, and allowed the tears to start spilling. “I’m sorry. I’m so sorry.”

Claire did indeed come in to see Peter once more, giving him a small smile as she briefly assessed him. It was a complicated process since neither Peter or Pepper felt the need to release the other. Still, she made it work, wearing an amused expression as she did. 

“Leave it to Wanda, and she’ll fix anything.” Claire chuckled under her breath. “Of course she got you awake.”

“How do you know her?”

“She’s a friend, a loyal and reliable friend, which is awful hard to come by where I live.” Claire winked, patting the back of Peter’s hand. “I trust you’ll be okay now that she worked her magic, whatever it may be.”

“How did you meet her?”

“Oh, that’s not my story to tell, just as your ailment is not for me to discuss with anyone outside of this room.”Claire glanced at Pepper from the corner of her eye.

Pepper rubbed Peter’s shoulder soothingly. “Thank you Ms. Temple. I appreciate your discretion.”

“I might not be a Doctor, but I respect my patients' privacy and will do my best to keep it.” Claire nodded to the pair. “Now, if you’ll excuse me, I have many other patients and colleagues who are undoubtedly awaiting my return.”

“You’re leaving too?” Peter asked in a small, meek tone. 

She nodded. “Dr. Banner is back to himself and is more than capable of looking after you now. There’s no other reason for me to stay.”

“You could tell me what’s going on with Hell’s Kitchen?” Peter blurted before he could stop himself. “At least with Matt, Frank, Foggy and Karen, and Jessica. All of them. Are they okay?”

“Peter,” Pepper lightly scolded. “Ms. Temple has to leave. You can’t be asking her these things right now. We need to get you something to eat -oh Happy please send for a tray- and out of these pajamas. They are positively filthy.”

“Pepper, please.” Peter pleaded softly while tightening his hold around her. “I need to know if they’re okay.

“Peter” Claire gently interrupted, bringing his attention back to her. “They’re fine. Banged up and grumbly, but no more than they usually are. They’re okay. It’s alright.”

“But-but-” he thought back to the dream, how they protected him and kept him safe.

“They’re still around Peter,” Claire smiled. “They’re not going anywhere anytime soon, and now it’s time for me and Wanda to get back to them.”

“But-but-”

“Peter,” Pepper reached a hand up to his face, cupping his cheek. “It’s time for her to go. She’s not needed here any longer. Bruce can take care of you now.”

His eyes searched the room. Searched for something, anything. He doesn’t know why, doesn’t understand why he’s acting like this. All he knows is he’s desperate. Desperate for her to stay. Desperate for someone to talk to him. Desperate for something to distract from this room. This lonely, isolated room that made his heart break everytime he thought about it. He doesn’t want to be in here, but he’s stuck here. Trapped here. Just like the Butcher trapped him in the darkness. He can’t leave. He can’t go with them.

But he can do something else.

After searching relentlessly, eyes flitting through the room with wild abandon, Peter found something that caught his attention. Something that made him jump out of the bed, clumsily and recklessly, and rush towards the table while ignoring Pepper’s shocked gasp, “Peter!”. The table with all of his favorite books. The table Wanda was just perusing through.

He grabbed the Hounds of Baskerville, holding the cool hardcover in a death grip as he turned back to the nurse. Pepper stood from his bed, moving in close to grab hold of him with wide eyes, or as wide as she would allow them to go in the presence of outside company. Happy was standing at the edge of the doorway, looking perplexed and uneasy. Jarvis stood just behind him wearing a similar expression.

With a deep breath, Peter shoved the book towards Claire. “Please give this to Wanda. She told me it’s her favorite.”

Pepper opened her mouth, undoubtedly to say no to his request, but Claire beat her to the punch with wide eyes. “Wanda talked to you?”

Peter nodded excitedly. “Yeah, why . . . why do you sound so surprised?”

“Wanda doesn’t talk to anybody, like anyone. Well, except maybe her brother but he doesn’t really count. Twin thing in all.”

“Twins?” 

Claire nodded. “‘Bit annoying really. She’s silent as the grave while he howls at the moon. No one ever knows what’s going on in her head while we all know exactly what’s going through his.” She shook her head, appraising Peter slightly. “Maybe you’re the one with the magic here, lucky duck.”

Peter didn’t know what to say to that. “Please give this to her.”

“I don’t know kid, she’s not the type to take gifts easy-”

“I insist,” Peter pressed, pushing the book further out to Claire. “Please.”

Claire blinked, glanced at Pepper, and then sighed in defeat. “Alright, but don’t get mad if it’s mysteriously mailed back to you. She’s not good about gifts, even from polite gentlemen such as yourself.”

She took the book from him, and then everything moved fast. The next minute was a blur, a sudden rush of bodies and words Peter didn’t quite catch. He was back in Pepper’s arms, sweet murmurs uttered in his ear while Happy patted him on the back and Jarvis left to fetch the Doctor. Peter’s eyes didn’t focus on anything, his mind somewhere between a jumbled mess and a blank sleight. It was odd to say the least, but he’d rather be like this than back in the darkness with the Butcher, then to be anywhere Tony, his Daddy wasn’t. 

The last thing Peter remembers about that day, the day he woke up from his week of endless sleep, was the sight of her. The sight of Wanda staring at him curiously through the open doorway as she walked by with Claire on their way out. The sight of those diamond eyes taking him in one last time. The way her green dress moved. The way the beige scarf settled in her hair. The way she smiled at him, holding the book he asked Claire to give to her close to her chest, as Jarvis walked them out. 

He remembered how she stopped, shifting the book to hold between her arm and her ribs. Remember how she held her hands up carefully, smiling softly as she did, and started moving them. Moving her fingers in a succinct, clear fashion that Peter recognized instantly.

Sign language.

She moved very quickly, but Peter was able to keep up. With each word she created with her hands, the more his attention bloomed, and eventually he found himself smiling. Smiling with relief. Smiling with renewed purpose as she finished her sentence, winking as she finally took her leave. 

_ Matt wishes his best, and hopes you remember the best place to listen to Rhapsody in Blue.  _

And that got him through the day.

**End of Rhapsody in Blue**

  
  
  


_ Thank you all so much for reading this story! I hope you guys enjoyed it even with all the feels and heartbreak (I’m sorry!) I gave you along the way. Some weird things do happen in this chapter, things that will be explained in better context with the new upcoming series “Hanging on the Old Barbed Wire”. If you’re interested in reading that, it involves the same characters and backstories and all that jazz from Roaring Hot, but it’ll take a different turn now and again. After Rhapsody, it also won’t be super Roaring Hot Centric but I’ll try to implement the same elements along the way. _

_ Once again, thank you so much! I hope the chapter was worth the wait! Feel free to leave a comment and all your feels! XD _

**Author's Note:**

> From CJ: I know my usual update schedule is pretty sporadic, and I make no apologies for life being life and for writing and posting being a hobby, not a job. However, Emberxashton has written the entire story and it's ready to post, so these chapters will come much, much faster than my own.
> 
> Remember that I expect good behavior in the comment section, and please gather your courage and speak up to leave words of encouragement because otherwise authors don't know that what they're written has been compelling or thrilling or emotional for you.
> 
> From Emberxashton: Please feel free to leave comments with suggestions for what you'd like to see me write in the future!


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